Tales of Perdition
by purplebowties
Summary: An exploration of Chuck and Nate's friendship through the tale of their annual Lost Weekend.
1. Prologue

**AN:** Hello to all my readers and merry Christmas! I was planning to write something for Christmas, but I haven't managed to finish it. However, I really wanted to give you something new for the holidays and I decided to share this multichapter story, which I finished writing exactly one year ago. It was written as a Christmas gift to Daphne and I've never posted it because I consider it pretty personal: not really for the topic, but for the fact the story, in each installment, is full of small headcanons that Daph and I came up with; silly things that made us laugh and details that come out of our long chats. This story is pretty much a journey into my imagination! You also have to know this is not a Chuck and Blair story: though Blair and CB's love will be present, the focus is on Chuck and Nate's relationship. The fanfiction follows Chuck and Nate through one of their annual lost weekends. I hope you enjoy the story regardless! Once again, happy holidays. Cris.

* * *

 _November 2_ _nd_ _, 2024  
_ _Thursday_ _  
_

Nate Archibald was known and admired for his utterly optimistic nature.

He liked to think of himself as a person who managed to find happiness even in the smallest and simplest things. A stranger smiling back at him, a text from his nephew, waking up to a sunny day; the occasions that caused his lips to stretch in a bright smile were many.

Chuck Bass, his best friend, would have claimed they were infinite, actually, since, according to him, Nate's joyful disposition was perpetual and indistinctively directed to everyone.

The enthusiastic beam showing on his face in that moment, though, was reserved to a truly special occasion. As he let himself fall on the couch of his living room, his eyes were glued to the invitation to the annual Lost Weekend, which rested on the coffee table in front of him with its back turned upwards to display his full name written in a baroque calligraphy – _Mr. Nathaniel Fitzwilliam Archibald_.

Taking off the dark blue jacket of his suit, Nate shook his head, an amused giggle escaping his lips. It had been a week since he had found the formal invitation on the desk of his office and yet it still caused him to laugh. Chuck would have surely taken offence in his hilarity, he thought, as he carefully picked up the invitation, but he couldn't help it: his best friend's attachment to formalities was incredibly amusing to Nate, who was always quite perplexed when it came to ceremonials and their value. While Chuck considered them sacred (" _It's called etiquette, Nathaniel,_ " he had answered with a sigh of annoyance the one and only time Nate had dared to question him about the need to officially invite him to an event that was exclusively their prerogative), to him they were dull and obsolete and, for this reason, also quite comical.

Still chortling, Nate rested the invitation on the couch next to him and proceeded to get rid of the tie that had oppressed him all day. He threw it on the backrest with a long sigh of relief and stretched his long legs on the coffee table, letting go of the boredom and the tiredness of a long, tedious day of work. Once comfortable, he turned his full attention back at the cream envelope and, with a wide smile spreading across his face, he extracted a card from it.

Under Chuck's elegant signature monogram printed on the top, a few lines were written in an elaborated yet clear lettering: " _Mr. Charles Bartholomew Bass requests the pleasure of the company of Mr. Nathaniel Fitzwilliam Archibald on the occasion of the annual Lost Weekend, from Friday, November 3_ _rd_ _, to Monday, November 6_ _th_. "

Of course there was no information about their destination. Nate had absolutely no idea where they were heading. As the theatrical person he was, Chuck took immense delight in surprising him and, therefore, he hadn't given him any clues.

Even Blair seemed to be in the dark about the place they were going to visit. When Nate, curious and hopeful, had asked her if her husband had left anything transpire regarding the Lost Weekend, she had simply shaken her head and, smiling sweetly at him, she had replied: " _Not a word, Nate. I'm sorry._ "

Eventually, Nate had given up on his attempt to find out. It was a losing battle anyways. He had never been a good detective; details usually slipped away from frail attention and he could never read between the lines of a speech. There was no way he would have managed to discover something that Chuck, who was possibly the most secretive and smartest man he knew, had decided to keep hidden.

His resignation, though, hadn't placated his ever-growing excitement. Full of trepidation, he was waiting for Lost Weekend with the enthusiasm of a teenage boy, counting days to the date of departure and trying to think of all the possible places Chuck could have chosen.

Over the years, his best friend's surprises had never missed to amaze him. Nate knew he spent months planning them in every minimal detail and he felt truly grateful for the way he always did his best to make these few days spent alone special.

Although they had both been everywhere and done everything life could offer to people who could afford excellence and luxury, seeing the world with his best friend had a completely different taste. It was the pleasure of reliving pieces of their youth free from the troubles and the heartache of those years, the opportunity to take a break from the demanding routine of their lives and, most of all, the chance to simply share time and space, recreating that sort of intimacy that used to be solely theirs.

As that thought crossed his mind, Nate threw his head back on the backrest and smiled once again, closing his eyes. His waiting was almost over; they were leaving for the mysterious destination tomorrow morning and three days of nothing but fun and perfect company were ahead of him. There wasn't anything he had to worry about.

Except for one thing. The moment Nate remembered the only matter he was supposed to take care of, his eyes snapped back open and widened, revealing a shocked expression. He hadn't packed.

He sat bolt upright with a jolt. They were leaving tomorrow morning and not only he hadn't packed, but he had also forgotten where he had put the dress code list Chuck had attached to the invitation, with his personal handwritten recommendation to read it and follow it.

Nate hadn't. He had taken a quick look at it and abandoned it somewhere the second his eyes had met the words " _black tie required_ ", telling himself that there was no way he would have worn uncomfortable suits on vacation. Why would he have inflicted himself such a senseless pain?

Because the alternative was dealing with Chuck's disapproving looks, head shakes and annoyed sighs for three days straight, he reminded himself as he briskly stood up.

Not to mention that his best friend would have ended up dragging him to buy " _something suitable for you to wear, Nathaniel_ ", which would have surely taken long, dull hours and caused him unspeakable embarrassment, considering how guilty and uncomfortable the way Chuck used to treat shopping assistants – with a haughtiness that was threatening and almost cruel – always made him feel.

It definitely wasn't a pleasant prospective. He had to throw some decent clothes in a suitcase and he had to do it quickly, Nate decided. The Basses usually had dinner around eight and, since he would have joined them as he did almost every night, he had more or less an hour to figure out what to do. He spun around, his brows furrowing in a confused expression as he scratched the top his head, fingers running distractedly through his messy hair, unsure where to start.

After a moment, he blinked. "Of course, closet," he whispered to himself.

He made his way to his bedroom, wondering that he should have probably been more careful with Chuck's note. At least, now he would have had an at least vague idea of what to put into the luggage.

* * *

It was with great surprise that, as he crossed the door to his room, Nate realized that he wasn't alone. Standing in front of his bed, where an orderly line of four suitcases had been arranged, was Chuck's latest valet. He was busy folding some light blue shirts Nate didn't remember he owned with meticulous care, as if they were made of the most delicate crystal instead of silk or linen.

Standing on the doorway, Nate asked himself how the man had managed to bypass security and get in. Then, shaking his head at his own foolish question, he reminded himself that he lived in the penthouse suite of one of Chuck's hotel, which meant his best friend and his staff had free access to every corner of his apartment, including his bedroom and definitely his closet.

Surprise faded, making room for a pleasant sense of familiarity. Chuck's constant and attentive presence in his life was revealed through small gestures and silent acts of kindness, such as making sure he didn't have to pack – which was something he hated doing.

"Hey, Ivan," crossing the door, Nate greeted his unexpected guest with a benevolent smile.

The valet turned and immediately abandoned the task he was focused on finishing to lace his hands together behind his back. "Good evening, Mr. Archibald," he bowed his head slightly in a discrete sign of reverence. "I hope I didn't disturb you. Mr. Bass sent me to take care of your baggage; he thought you might have needed some help."

"Some help?" Nate's words trailed off with a cheerful laughter. He stepped over to where the man was standing and patted on his shoulder. "You're saving me, buddy. I had no clue where to start."

"I'm glad to be useful, sir," Ivan – or at least that's how Chuck called him – answered him.

Sitting down on the bed, Nate shot him an amused look and then shook his head. "Look, there's no need to call me ' _Sir_ ' or ' _Mr. Archibald_ ', okay?" he said, his kind smile widening. "I'm just Nate."

"Of course, Mr. Nate," the valet nodded and smiled back politely. His expression, however, let a certain perplexity show through, indicating that he definitely wasn't used to be treated in such an informal, down to heart way. Chuck was pretty inflexible when it came to his conviction that it was only commonsense to keep a cold detachment from the people who worked for him. He would have never allowed an employee to call him " _Chuck_ "; even " _Mr. Bass_ " wasn't proper enough: to his staff, he was strictly " _Sir_ ".

"That's much better," Nate replied gleefully, as eyes went back to the pile of shirts he still didn't recall he had bought. Perhaps he had just forgotten them; after all, they all looked the same to him. "Where did you find those, though?" he asked, a curious frown puckering his forehead. "Did you pick them up from the dry cleaner, maybe?"

"No, Mr. Nate," the valet replied, as he proceeded to set them inside the only suitcase that was still open. "I went to pick them up from Mr. Bass' tailor. They arrive from London. Mrs. Bass ordered them a week ago; she was convinced you needed new ones, since winter season is close."

Nate eyed the light blue shirts once more before heaving a resigned sigh. He hadn't been in charge of his own closet for a long time; Chuck and especially Blair had decided it was their responsibility to make sure he was always dressed properly, " _as any respectable politician in his thirty should be_."

And this wasn't the only aspect of his life they managed. People would have called them intrusive, possibly even controlling, but, to Nate, their constant company didn't feel anything but comforting. They were his family in the most literal way; ever since the earliest days of their marriage, his best friend and his wife had carved out a space that belonged to him in their domestic routine.

He had never been a guest in their home. He didn't need an invitation to cross the door to the Basses' household; he actually had the keys, the alarm system's code (which he systematically forgot) and also a guest room that was always ready for him when he wanted to spend the night there – Dorota made sure there were always fresh towels, pajamas and a change of clothes waiting for him.

According to their view of family, there was nothing weird about the way they acted with him. If family was a small, elected circle of loved ones that needed to be cherished, defended and taken care of, then they had all the right – and, as they would have said, the responsibility – to guide him through life. Chuck and Blair were the brains behind most of his choices and the silent weavers of his serenity.

They had played a fundamental role in all of the steps of his adulthood. They had pushed him to run for mayor when he didn't feel capable to do it and supported him all the way up to his victory. They had been the greatest help through his four years' term and, eventually, they had been the ones to advise him against running for a second one – " _Handling all that stress doesn't suit you, Nathaniel_ ; _not because you can't do it, but because_ _you don't like it,_ " Chuck had told him, pointing out to what, to his always attentive eyes, had been obvious for quite a while. His best friend had always been able to tell what he needed and which was the right call to make long before him.

Towers of strength in the middle of a storm, Chuck and Blair had also picked him up from the ground each time he had stumbled on the rollercoaster his relationship with Serena had been. They had given him stability and a reason to smile even through the sorrow of a divorce and several break ups.

If Nate was now a happy man, with a solid family, a concrete political career and a pleasant life, he knew he also had – and maybe above all – to thank Chuck and Blair and the way they and their son Henry had been the cornerstones of his existence.

"If Blair said so, then she must be right," Nate commented coolly and a nonchalant shrug accompanied his words. The corners of his lips tilted up in a new, placid smile. "She's the boss of all of us for a good reason."

With that last observation, he stood up. "Well, I suppose I'm not much help here. It's not like I have a say in this matter," he said with a chuckle, approaching the valet. "I'm gonna let you finish, Ivan," he told him. He patted once again on his shoulder, friendly as his never fading, open grin. "I'll give you a ride to Chuck and Blair's after you're done. I'm going there anyways."

Ivan raised his eyes on him and darted him a rather unsure look. "Mr. Nate, I don't think Mr. Bass would approve," he replied hesitantly. "He usually leaves me some money for cabs in case I've got errands to run for him."

Nate, who was already walking to the door, turned, shaking his head at Chuck's bizarre severity once again. "Oh, what Mr. Bass doesn't know can't hurt his pride, right?" he joked, winking at the man in front of him. Always genuinely happy to be kind, he didn't give his best friend's valet the time to refuse his offer and quickly left the room, ready to enjoy a beer and a good videogame before leaving for the Basses' place.

* * *

There was something about Chuck and Blair's house that never missed to make Nate wonder how anyone could live surrounded by such an exaggerated opulence without feeling oppressed by a sense of inadequacy.

He suspected it was an intentional effect. The splendor of the place was so evident and so perfectly well-finished that a guest blessed with the privilege of walking through the rooms of the residence had the impression to be inside a royal palace, majestic and imposing as the personalities of those who owned it. It was a pure exhibition of power, a statement made even clearer by the eclectic touches and the lavish art pieces the townhouse was filled with; details to remind whoever entered that rules didn't apply to the Basses and that nothing was ever too much for them.

As he stepped into the foyer – and ensemble of baroque furniture set in a triumph of black and gold – Nate's gaze was drawn by the family portray towering on the wall opposite to the door. He smiled at the sight of his best friends and his nephew's images staring back at him from inside an elaborated gilded frame. In the painting, Chuck's arm was tightly laced around Blair's waist and his other hand gently placed on Henry's shoulder. The three of them had the exact same pose; they stood upright, proud eyes and regal pose.

He supposed Chuck and Blair had placed it there to make sure it was the first thing a visitor's eyes could catch; a megalomaniac display of their grandeur other than the strength of their marriage, intimidating and, at the same time, enviable.

To Nate, instead, the portrait was just a reminiscence of a happy moment. He was there the day it had been painted; a snowy Sunday afternoon of two years ago, which he had spent giggling at Chuck and Henry's matching outfits and at Blair's attempts to make her husband and son stay still. They had resisted less than ten minutes. Patience wasn't a quality a Bass needed, Chuck had said, declaring that a competent painter would have been able to make an accurate job without needing them to " _model like puppets_ ". Needless to say, the portraitist had been forced to work without his capricious subjects.

With a sigh of relief, Nate left the suitcase he was carrying on the floor.

"Give it to me, Mr. Nate," Chuck's valet said immediately after. He had just crossed the front door with the rest of Nate's luggage and, when Nate turned, he was already approaching him with his rapid pace and always courteous expression. "I'll bring it to your guestroom with the others."

Nate smiled. "Oh, there's no need," he replied cheerfully. "I'm sure you're busy enough without having to worry about me too," he added, wondering what kind of traumatic experience packing for Chuck had to be.

Ivan shook his head. "I must insist, Mr. Nate," he retorted strictly. He reached out to the suitcase and promptly picked it up, leaving Nate to stare at him with a perplexed frown wrinkling his forehead.

"But —"

"I'd appreciate if you just let Ivan do his job, Nate," sharp and authoritarian, Blair's voice interrupted Nate's attempt to persuade the valet and forced him to spun around to see her crossing the family room's door and pacing towards them with her always so resolute expression, followed by her assistant. The poor woman, Nate noticed, looked on the verge of a nervous breakdown trying to keep up with Blair while frantically writing notes on a tablet.

"God forbids Chuck finds out you gave him a ride and even carried your own luggage. You'd cause this young man to be fired and I don't think Dorota could handle putting together another selection of candidates, much less instructing a new person on the endless list of your best friend's demands and obsessions. She's had enough for this month," she concluded as she stopped right in front of Nate.

Nate's mouth opened slightly in confusion as he bent his head to side; his brow furrowed, giving him a completely disoriented look. "Why would that happen?"

Blair rolled her eyes at his question, sighing as she reached out to his shoulders and smoothed the creases of his jacket. "For reasons you wouldn't understand," she said, her tone as indulgent as the smile she offered him before placing a quick kiss on his cheek.

"Ivan," she called for the valet when she pulled away from Nate; she nodded at the suitcases occupying the antique carpet on the floor and motioned for the servant to take care of them.

The sweet expression she had reserved for Nate had completely disappeared when she turned her head towards her assistant, who stood a couple of steps behind her. Blair darted her a stern look. "Revise the guest list. _Twice_. Invitations must be sent not later than tomorrow morning," she ordered, her eyes carefully following the valet as he proceeded to place Nate's luggage into the elevator. "Call the florist. Make sure the sure he understood that yellow roses can't be used for the decorations and tell him I want a sample of the table arrangements ready by Monday. _Versailles_ isn't an easy theme to follow, it's necessary to be careful with every detail."

Nate, who had listened to the conversation without really understanding what Blair was talking about, grew curious. "Are you planning a party?" he asked, watching as the assistant rapidly left the foyer. Chuck and Blair's staff gave him the creeps sometimes; it was like staring at an army of robots.

Blair turned her attention back at him. Her severe pose softened and she smiled sweetly at him. "Not just a party, Nate. I'm planning _the party_ : my birthday. It'll be celebrated in ten days exactly," she answered gaily, her voice vibrant with excitement. "Didn't Chuck mention it to you?"

Nate blinked. Chuck had said something about a masquerade ball, but he couldn't remember other details. "Oh, of course," he still smiled back, hoping she hadn't noticed his indecision. "A ball, right?"

"Precisely," Blair nodded, taking him by the arm. "We'll use The Empire's ballroom as venue." She started leading him towards the kitchen's anteroom and Nate followed her without hesitation. Having known Blair for his whole life, he knew it was better to show full interest for her birthday.

"As you _well know_ my actual birthday is in two weeks, but Chuck planned a trip to Paris for that date," she explained as they sat down at the breakfast table set in the middle of the small room. "We're hosting my parents at our penthouse."

The Basses' Parisian residence, an enormous attic overlooking the Eiffel Tower, had been Chuck's gift for Blair's thirtieth birthday and for the past five years it had been the location of their New Year's Eve parties. Nate had beautiful memories there.

It was also the place where he and Serena had spent their last romantic weekend together, his ultimate attempt to make her realize they could have the free and adventurous life she wanted together. It had been three years already, he thought, and the nostalgic smile that had curled his lips at the reminiscence of those few, perfect days slowly faded.

The art of catching even the minutest emotions on people's faces had always been one of Blair's most developed talents; a natural ability that almost twenty years spent deciphering Chuck's enigmatic glances and silences had only managed to improve. Nate, whose expressions were always pretty blatant, was an incredibly easy book to read for her. So, understanding what he was wondering about, she patted lightly on his arm and grinned.

"You're going to need a costume for the ball and, of course, a dame," she said, choosing a jaunty, high-pitched tone to draw his attention. Nate's eyes met hers before narrowing under a confused frown, to which Blair smiled once again. "You don't have to worry about neither. I'll take care of both for you."

Nate sighed. Blair had spent the past two years trying to find him " _a_ _suitable girlfriend_ " and setting up dates for him. All the women she had introduced him had turned out to be a disappointment for Nate. She had picked smart and beautiful girls, but he felt like they were always missing something; none of them was carefree enough, funny enough, wild enough, _blonde_ enough…

His frown deepened as he realized he had ended up thinking of his ex-wife. "Blair, I really don't want a date," he told her disconsolately. "I'd rather come as solo."

Blair huffed. "Nonsense," she said, moving her hand in a dismissive wave. "Our autumn/winter collection top model will be the perfect fit. She has an aristocratic look," she declared firmly, in a way that didn't admit replies. "You're going to like her," she assured him. "She's blonde."

"Mom, uncle Nate doesn't need a date." Henry's voice caught their attentions and made them turn. Nate smiled at the sight of his nephew, who had just appeared on the doorway, and at his words. "He has us. Aren't we more than enough?"

The widest beam spread across Blair's face. "Once again you sound just like your father. Exactly like him," she said, pushing her chair back and standing up to greet him with a hug and a kiss.

Watching him, Nate couldn't help but agree. Leaned casually against the doorjamb, a smirk curving his thin lips and perfectly cut dark hair brushing his forehead, he looked exactly like Chuck at the age of ten. They shared the same features, the same elegant way of moving and that bit of ever-present sarcasm in their equally posh tones.

Being around him, to Nate, often felt like traveling back in time and reaching a day of twenty-five years ago, when he was kid with an adult looking best friend. Henry looked and sounded older than his age too; his vocabulary and his manners were refined, veiled by that haughtiness he had learnt from his father. He resembled him in every possible way, except for his eyes; other than being copies of Blair's, they still preserved the vivid light of childhood, a lively carefreeness and serenity that Nate had never found in Chuck's gaze.

"How was practice, sweetie?" Blair asked as she freed her son from a thigh embrace. She carefully fixed the collar of his monogrammed polo shirt as she pulled back and stroked his hair gently.

A rather smug smile showed on Henry's face and Nate felt suddenly proud and amused. His nephew had been riding horse since the age of four and, a couple of years ago, he had joined the polo junior team. Nate wasn't such a fan of that sport – it was a way too snobbish environment for him – but Henry loved it and so he hadn't missed a game ever since the kid had started playing regularly.

"It was excellent," Henry replied with a self-satisfied expression. "Augustus is superb."

"Wait," Nate interrupted him, shooting him a quizzical look. "Who's Augustus?"

Blair sighed, turning her head towards him. "Augustus is your best friend's latest ' _I was away for two weeks and now I feel guilty_ ' gift," she explained. Behind her, Henry started to chuckle, clearly entertained by his mother's disapproval. "It's a horse. A horse Henry didn't need, since he already owns a stable with other six wonderful stallions."

At her last remark, the kid's expression changed. His eyes narrowed as he stared at Blair straight-faced, visibly offended. He looked so insulted that Nate had to keep himself from laughing, as it happened every time his nephew did something that reminded him of Chuck. Father and son were equally touchy and he found that common trait particularly hilarious.

"That's not quite correct, _mother_ ," Henry replied promptly, uttering every word with a deliberate slowness that perfectly matched his serious, flat tone. "Augustus isn't just ' _a horse_ '; he's a black Arabian pureblood," he specified smugly. "And I did need him."

There was no one in the world who could have spoken to Blair so arrogantly except for her son. While any other mother would have admonished that insolence, Blair seemed to be completely in love with it. Her eyes sparkled with pride and genuine admiration when, amazed, she beamed at Henry once again, and Nate got the impression that she looked like she had never seen anything so precious before.

"Take off your riding boots before Dorota sees you walking around the house with them on," she said, softly ruffling the kid's hair. "But give me a kiss first."

Henry rolled his eyes at his mother's request. Still, he lifted himself up a little as she bent forward and smirked before pressing a quick kiss on her cheek. "Where's dad?" he asked right after, as he sat down on the floor to remove the boots. "Is he back from work?"

"Right," Nate took the chance to butt in. Telling himself it was wise to go see his best friend before Blair had the occasion to come back at the table and start talking about possible dates again, he stood up. "Where is he?"

Stared by two pairs of equally hopeful eyes, Blair nodded. "He's upstairs in his office," she informed them. "But Jack is here; they came home together. I suppose Chuck wanted to make sure everything will be taken care of while he's away."

Henry grinned joyfully. "Awesome!" he exclaimed, jumping up. "Uncle Jack needs to see pictures of Augustus. He hasn't seen him yet."

Next to him, Nate frowned. He was so used to have all of Henry's attention that when Chuck's uncle was around he couldn't help but feeling somewhat jealous. Jack wasn't the kind of person who was supposed to be around a kid, he said to himself to justify his irrational feeling. It was only logic to be bothered by his presence; he was only being protecting with his nephew. "I haven't either, buddy," he stated. "Can I see them?"

Henry shrugged. "Sure," he answered. "Come with me, uncle Nate. Daddy has beautiful photos on his iPad that both you and uncle Jack can look at."

It wasn't the answer Nate had hoped for. He would have liked to sit on the couch in the family room with Henry and, looking at the pictures the kid was so excited about, be the only one to smile of his enthusiasm and happiness, but the only choice he had was to share that moment. So he followed his barefoot, gleefully hipping nephew to the foyer and then into the elevator, hoping Jack wasn't in the mood to ruin his night.

* * *

The knock at the mahogany door of his home office made Chuck turn silent. He raised his hand slightly in a mute demand to his uncle to stop talking and turned his entire attention at the sound.

It was the touch of a polite yet secure hand, a repeated beat he would have recognized even between the loudest noises, for the fact he knew it was the joyful prelude to his son's entrance. His lips stretched in a genuine, instinctive smile.

"It's Henry," he explained in a whisper, answering to his uncle's quizzical stare.

Seeing the delighted expression on his nephew's face, Jack smirked. "Ah, the little devil," he commented amusedly. "It's always a pleasure to see him."

Chuck rolled his eyes at the nickname the older man had used before darting him a warning glance; his uncle had been calling Henry like that for years and, as much as it made Chuck vaguely pleased, he still knew Blair hated it.

"Come in, Henry," he said, raising his voice to make sure the kid could hear him and to cover Jack's mocking snicker.

As soon as he pronounced those words, the heavy door opened and Henry rushed into the extensive room, excitedly making his way towards his father. Longing to embrace his son, Chuck pushed the large throne shaped chair back and spread out his arms, ready to welcome him on his knees.

A nostalgic smile curled his lips, as he watched Henry running through the office. The days when he could walk to the door and scoop him up without causing himself the most horrible backache were long gone. His son wasn't that tiny anymore; he was a healthy ten years old boy who had become too big to be carried.

The smile still hadn't faded when Henry finally reached his lap. Chuck squeezed him a tight hug, making him giggle and letting him cling to his neck and sink his face against his shoulder. Breathing him in, he placed a light kiss on his temple. "How are you, Henry?" he asked right after, guiding his hand to his son's head and smoothing his hair with a gentle caress. "Did you enjoy practice?"

Henry made himself more comfortable on Chuck's lap before answering. He took a few seconds to compose himself after their enthusiastic greeting, fixing the collar of his polo and straightening his back. He then smirked at his father. "I did," he declared with a nod. "Augustus and I are an impeccable match; he's a remarkable example of his breed and I'm a rather skilled player."

The sophisticated choice of words and the composed, graceful pose Henry had assumed made Chuck smile proudly. Watching him grow was a privilege he could have never renounced to; it was incredible to see him become a bit less childlike every day, although he was grateful for the moments of pure spontaneity Henry still conceded him, such as the way he never missed to hold on to him after a long day spent apart.

"I'm glad, although I'm not surprised," Chuck replied, staring at him right in the eyes; the kid had Blair's sharp, gorgeous deep brown eyes and he could never avert his gaze from them. "I knew he was the perfect fit for you the moment I saw him. Has grandma come to see you?" he wondered. "She called me to say she would."

Henry was about to respond when Jack cleared his throat, reminding father and son that they weren't alone in the room. "Young Bass," he uttered the words with raised eyebrows when his youngest nephew finally looked at him. "Won't you say hi to your favorite uncle?"

The kid eyed him for a second, attentively studying his expression. It was only when he decided that his uncle wasn't accusing him of being impolite that he stood up. He came around the desk and stopped in front of the chair where Jack was sitting, lifting his chin a little in a clear attempt to look prouder and superior. "Good evening, uncle Jack," he said, extending his arm to shake the man's hand.

Jack's lips curved in an oblique smile. Henry adored to act and be treated like an adult – like the very authoritarian person his father was – and it was something the man couldn't help but enjoy. He had never liked children, but Henry was special. Other than being extraordinarily clever, he had his parents' scheming, cunning mind, their taste for power and the class of an old soul. He was a Bass through and through.

Indulging the kid's formal manners, Jack squeezed his hand. "Good evening to you, young man. Please, take a seat," he said, pointing at the free chair next to him. "Tell us more about the newest addition to your horses."

Henry shook his head. "We _must_ wait for uncle Nate," he stated firmly as he sat down on the lather armchair next to his great uncle. His tone was inflexible. "He wanted to see pictures of Augustus as well. He'll join us in a few minutes; he went to his room to change before dinner."

Jack snickered. "As you say, boss," he joked, receiving a sly, satisfied smile from Henry. "You're doing a good job with this little devil, nephew," he then commented, turning towards Chuck, who smirked pleased. "He's a natural leader. In no time, he'll be ruling over a reign of terror just like his father."

"Well, as a Waldorf- Bass, dominance is in his blood," Chuck commented, winking at his son.

Henry, flattered by the way they were talking about him, grinned. A self-satisfied flash sparkled in his eyes. "Mom says that ' _generations of breeding and wealth had to come together to produce me_ '."

"As it often happens, your mother is absolutely right," Chuck confirmed, amused by the fact his son had literally quoted one of his wife's favorite statements. He took a mental note to tell her, knowing she would have been delighted to know her teachings had successfully sunk in. "So, you were telling us that uncle Nate is already here?" he asked after.

The satisfied tone tinging his question let all of his contentment show through. He had planned three perfect days to spend with his best friend and he was surely excited to start their traditional Lost Weekend with a pleasant family dinner, an occasion to enjoy some time all together before their short retreat.

"Of course he is," Jack sneered, rolling his eyes. "He's always here. That poor man has no idea what to do with his free time, except for sitting and waiting for your voluble step-sister to decide she wants him again. It's quite pathetic, to be honest. How long has it been since he enjoyed the company of woman?"

Chuck, who never let anyone talk about Nathaniel that way, looked daggers at his uncle, ready to reply with poisonous words (a reminder of how Georgina had managed to make the infamous Jack Xavier Bass follow her all the way to Morocco and gift her with a yacht to get her back the last time they had broken up), but his son was faster.

"Uncle Nate visits us every day because he's family, not because he has nothing to do," he answered strictly, his words coming out in an annoyed yet glacial tone. "And, as dad and I keep telling mom, he doesn't need a woman. He has us."

Jack shook his head. "Well, I hope your father will at least provide him with some fun during this weekend," he pointed out sarcastically. "Believe me, Hen. Your uncle needs a few days of perdition more than anything."

Chuck smirked, looking back at his uncle with a proud expression. "Nathaniel will enjoy our annual Bohemian adventure as usual, uncle," he affirmed securely. "I happen to know exactly what's necessary to my best friend."

The older man had only the time to scoff before a knock drew all of the three Basses' gazes to the door. As it often happened, Nate entered the office without waiting for his best friend to let him in.

While Chuck would have normally gotten irritated by such an impolite behavior, the fact that Nate felt free and at ease enough to simply be himself – casual, spontaneous and always so unconcerned – gave him a warm sense of familiarity. It wasn't an act of rudeness or disrespect; it was purely a matter of habit and intimacy, an unspoken revelation of trust. So he welcomed his best friend with a sincere smile, motioning for him to come closer.

"Hey man," Nate almost shouted as he crossed the doorstep, beaming happily at Chuck and at Henry, who had turned to look at his uncle with a wide grin showing on his face. He then directed his gaze on Jack and, as soon as he met the man's sardonic, conceited stare, he scowled. "Jack," he greeted him coldly, receiving a mere indifferent nod as an answer.

"Good evening, Nathaniel," Chuck said as Nate paced to the desk. "I'm glad to see you. We were waiting for you."

Jack smirked. "Yes, the little devil here is quite excited to show us his new horse," he confirmed, crossing his legs and leaning his head against the armchair's backrest with the obvious intention to make it clear that Nate's arrival didn't interest him. If anything, by the slow, vaguely bored tone of his words, it was evident he hadn't enjoyed having to wait for him. "Although I wonder how could you possibly appreciate the beauty of such a magnificent creature. If I recall, you aren't a good equestrian."

Chuck observed how Nate blinked, unsure how to reply to the comment. He sighed, grabbing his iPad. "He doesn't need to be one to understand," he stepped in, shooting his uncle a threatening glance as he handed the tablet to his son. "The splendor of some things is so blatant that it's clear to everybody's eyes, right Henry?"

Henry smiled. "Augustus is indeed beautiful, you'll see," he declared, standing up. "Let's go sit over there," he told his uncles, indicating the sitting area of the office as he carefully smoothed the collar of his dark red polo shirt. "We'll be more comfortable."

His proposition sounded more like a strict order, Chuck detected with immense satisfaction, and, observing his son's secure, always so demanding manners, he couldn't help but smirk.

Watching as the two men followed Henry to the opposite side of the room and sat down on the plush armchairs set in front of the couch that the kid had taken all for himself, he took a moment to adjust his tie and straighten the jacket of his suit, before standing up as well.

Once Henry started with the passionate and accurate description of his new horse, making sure Jack and Nate examined attentively every picture, Chuck opened a drawer of his desk and extracted a small remoter. As soon as he pointed it towards the wall on his right, two of the dark wood panels that covered it slid open, revealing a fully equipped home bar.

He paced over to the marble counter and reached for the scotch decanter, before pouring the fine amber liquor into three glasses, making sure to add ice in one of them, well aware that his best friend didn't enjoy a neat drink. Then, thoughtful as he always was when he came to his son, he quickly prepared a Shirley Temple for Henry, knowing that there was nothing his kid hated more than feeling excluded from a grown-up activity.

By the time Chuck arranged the drinks on a sterling silver tray and started making his way to the sitting area, Henry had finished exhibiting the pictures and he was now smirking pleased at his uncles' enthusiastic comments.

"He looks awesome, buddy," Nate was saying just as Chuck rested the tray on the coffee table. "Maybe we could go ride together next week," he proposed with a hopeful smile. "You know, I'm not such an expert, but I guess I can manage."

The words – and possibly the optimistic tone they had been pronounced with – caused Jack to let out a mocking sound and Henry to stare at his younger uncle skeptically. Chuck, sensing his best friend's distress, squeezed his son's shoulder as he sat down on the sofa next to him, letting him understand he should have answered kindly.

At the touch, Henry smiled. "It's a really good idea," he replied, before turning his head towards his father. "When are you and uncle Nate coming back, dad?"

"On Monday afternoon," Chuck answered, a pinch of guilt in his voice. He took Henry's cocktail from the coffee table and handed it to him with a somewhat cautious smile. "It's a short trip, Henry," he assured, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "I won't be taking long ones for a month."

Jack took a sip of his drink. "Yeah, because I will," he commented with a sigh. "Your father filled my schedule with an unbearable amount of work," he stated dramatically. When Chuck chortled satisfied at the dramatic declaration, he rolled his eyes at him. "I hope you'll at least appreciate the result of the project I've worked on for the past six months, since you're going there."

"What?" Nate exclaimed, making his dubious eyes travel between Chuck and his uncle. Fixing his gaze on his best friend, he frowned. "He knows where we're going?"

Chuck opened his mouth to answer, but Jack stopped him. "Of course I do, kid," he said, fake surprise tinging his tone with irony and a vein of disdain. "Why? Don't you?"

Henry smirked. "I know too, uncle Nate," he stated proudly. "I helped dad planning your vacation. I know _everything_ about it."

An even more confused and now also slightly offended expression crossed Nate's face. "I thought it was supposed to be top-secret," he protested, pursing his lips in a small pout. "I've been asking you to tell me for weeks, man. It's not fair."

Meeting his best friend's not so vaguely upset gaze, Chuck heaved a sigh. "If it makes you feel better, they're the only ones who know. Jack curated the acquisition and the renovations of the hotel we'll be staying at, I had to let him know for obvious reasons. And, as you well know, I tell Henry everything. Besides, you're the one our destination has to be a surprise to, Nathaniel," he explained, his eyes benevolent and placid like the sound of his words. "It's a tradition. It's what we've done since we graduated high-school."

Nate looked down. A shy smile curled Nate's lips and, to Chuck, it was a small, simple reminder of his best friend's pure heart and docile soul. His forgiveness was always sincere and completely innocent; he was easily hurt, but also so quick to heal.

"Well, your surprises are always incredible," he said, raising his eyes on Chuck again. He grinned at his best friend, letting him know that his accurate justification had been enough to make his cheerfulness and excitement come back. "As you said…it's tradition."

The joyful sparkle in Nate's stare made Chuck smirk pleased. He raised his drink in a toast, a toast that was solely theirs, and, when their crystal glasses clinked together, they both felt like they were taking the first taste of a glorious weekend.


	2. Day 1

**AN:** Hello, readers! I hope you all spent nice holidays. Here is the second update to this story: you'll find out where Chuck and Nate are going and hopefully enjoy the first day of their Lost Weekend. All the locations in the chapter exist. Feel free to google them if you're curious! The only invention is the name of the hotel, which has been chosen by Daphne: if you're curious to see how it looks like, check The Four Seasons hotel of the city Chuck and Nate are visiting. Enjoy your reading and feel free to contact me if you have questions.

 _November 3_ _rd_ _, 2024  
_ _Friday  
_

The first day of _Lost Weekend_ started with the sharp sound of a ringing alarm, at four in the morning. Nate groaned, digging his head under one of the many pillows covering the bed and moaned against the Egyptian cotton of the pillowcase before rolling to the other end of the matrass. Unwilling to let go of the warmth and the comfort of sleep, he pulled the duvet and the sheets he had wrapped himself into.

Chuck had arranged a 5 AM departure, claiming that he wanted to reach their destination in time to enjoy a couple of hours of rest before dinner. He had then told Nate to meet him in the foyer at 4:30 sharp, explaining that they were going to have breakfast directly on the plane.

Described while they were playing pool and savoring a glass of red wine from the cellar, his best friend's plan had sounded absolutely reasonable. Now that he was cozy in his comforter and not completely awake, though, the idea of getting up so early seemed absurd.

Nate sighed, reaching out to his phone on the bedside table to turn off the alarm and switch on the lamp. He forced himself up against the headboard into a sitting position, narrowing his eyes and blinking as he tried to adjust his sight to the dim light. He took a deep breath, looking around the room he felt so at ease into.

 _His_ guest room was different from any other space in the townhouse. While each of the five floors was elaborately decorated and sophisticated, that bedroom had a clean, simple look.

Chuck and Blair's traditional and opulent taste met and blended with a more contemporary and pragmatic style, in the way the cream white walls contrasted with the rich navy blue one standing out behind the neoclassical king-size bed. On the floor, a plain pale gray carpet covered a large portion of the light wood parquet, the only variation to the colors picked for the rest of the fabrics – a neat ensemble of dark blue and soft beige. The pieces of furniture were elegant but as sober and as unpretentious as the masters of the house could possibly tolerate.

There weren't antique and delicate ornaments that would have made Nate feel uncomfortable and worried about his clumsiness. The only truly valuable object was the painting hanged over the stuffed headboard; an abstract subject created by the merging of several shades of blue.

It was home, Nate thought as a feeble smile stretched his lips; an environment that Chuck and Blair had designed explicitly for him, making sure it fitted his personality.

With this joyful thought in his mind, he finally convinced himself to get up. He made his way into the _en-suite_ bathroom and entered the shower, hoping that it would have helped him to get rid of the sleepiness still making his eyelids heavier.

Fifteen minutes later Nate was walking down the hallway to the floor landing, where the gilded doors of the elevator were ready to slid open and welcome him into the squared cabin, which would have led him directly to the foyer. The long carpet running all the way to the other end of the corridor muffled the sound of his slow, drowsy steps. Shrouded in that unusual silence, the house gave Nate a relaxing sense of peace. He figured Chuck's valet was already there, since, back from his shower, he had found the warm, perfectly ironed suit he was now wearing laid on the bed, but he doubted any other staff member had arrived.

In less than an hour he knew that the empty hall he was pacing through would have turned into an incessant coming and going of zealous employees, ready to satisfy the demands of just awaken Blair and Henry, and he was more than glad to know he would have avoided witnessing the daily display of hysteria that so genuinely amused the Basses, but never missed to make him grow somehow sad – and guilty.

Reaching the floor landing, Nate noticed that on the opposite side of the hallway the grandly ornamented double door that led to Chuck ad Blair's master bedroom was still shut. He thought of knocking for a moment, sure that Chuck was awake and probably even ready, but reminded himself right after that disturbing Blair's last hour of sleep was a risk he shouldn't have taken. So he entered the elevator, a slight smile on his face at the sudden realization that soon he would have found out where he and Chuck were heading. Once on the jet, he would have definitely convinced him to tell him.

In a few seconds the elevator reached the softly illuminated foyer. As soon as Nate stepped out into the entrance, he was approached by Chuck's valet, who had been waiting for him right in front of the sliding doors.

The man smiled at him. "Good morning, Mr. Nate," he said in a low voice. "I hope everything was okay with the suit. Mr. Bass instructed me to pick one for you."

Nate frowned, unsure what the valet was talking about. It was only after a couple of seconds that he remembered what he was wearing and how he had found his clothes. Still confused by sleepiness, he shook his head and then smiled back. "Oh, sure," he replied. "Thanks for that, Ivan. It was very kind of you. Is Chuck awake?"

Ivan nodded. "Mr. Bass asked me to tell you he'll be down in a minute. Would you like a coffee in the meantime?"

"That would be awesome," Nate answered, trying to repress a yawn.

He sluggishly followed Ivan into the kitchen and collapsed on one of the stools set around the island.

Somnolence soon forced him to lean his cheek against the palm of his and close his eyes, breathing in the inebriating aroma of coffee spreading around the room. At this time of the year the Basses' house was always overly warm, for Chuck couldn't bear cold, and the sweet, comfortable heat didn't help Nate to stay awake. Inert, his elbow surrendered to the weight of his head and slowly glided on the white marble counter until he ended up using his arm as a pillow.

It was the strong touch of a hand on his shoulder that woke him up from his less than a minute-long nap. He blinked a few times, until his tired eyes allowed him to catch the figure of his best friend smiling down at him.

"Good morning, Nathaniel," Chuck greeted him with a chortle, patting lightly on his back.

Nate lifted his head, trying to sit in a less awkward way. "Hey, man," he mumbled, weak but still cheerful; his lips curled in a lazy smile as, running a hand through his still pretty messy hair, he watched Chuck taking the seat next to him.

"Ivan," Chuck gestured towards his valet, who was still busy with the coffee machine. "Make a stronger one for Mr. Archibald. And one for me." Then, without giving attention to the man's obsequious reply, he turned to look at Nate again, an oblique, satisfied smirk on his lips. "So, are you ready for Lost Weekend, Nathaniel?"

Nate yawned. He was excited for sure, but not exactly ready. He was still fighting to keep his eyelids open and his head felt heavy and disordered. Chuck, instead, seemed to be perfectly awake, impeccably dressed in a double breast dark purple suit. "Sure, man," he answered anyways, smiling thankfully at the valet, who had just set an espresso in front of him and one in front of Chuck. "More than ready."

Chuck took a small sip of coffee. "We're slightly late," he sighed, checking distractedly on his Rolex. "But we won't lose any more time. Our luggage has been brought to the airport and stewed last night," he assured Nate, who nodded absentmindedly. He didn't care much about respecting the schedule his best friend had come up with, but he didn't have the energies to contradict him.

"I see the two lost men are awake."

Blair's harmonious voice made them turn towards the door. She was looking at them from the doorstep, wrapped in a black silk robe. She had clearly just gotten up; she wasn't wearing any make up and her hair wasn't done. Still, the moment Chuck saw her, Nate noticed, his expression softened.

"Blair," he pronounced her name delicately, a genuine smile crossing his face. "You're up," he looked at his wife full of admiration and surprise, as if he wasn't expecting her to be there. Then, suddenly, he shot her a thoughtful, almost worried look. "You didn't have to wake up so early, I'm sure you have a busy day ahead of you."

That plain, utter devotion made Nate beam, as he watched his best friend stand up and rapidly approach the woman he had loved for most of his life. The people in front of him had been married for fifteen years and yet they still shared the most solid, intimate, passionate and caring relationship he had ever seen.

He had never found anything like that in his life. He had loved – _and still loved_ – Serena with every bit of his heart, but he had never lived the fidelity he could see clearly in front of him, blatant even in the simple way Chuck had to wrap his arm around Blair's waist and pull her close, as if, even now, he felt overjoyed to find her in his embrace.

Blair placed a light kiss on her husband's lips. "Tell me, Bass, in fifteen years of marriage, have I ever let you walk out the door without saying goodbye first?" she asked, raising her eyebrows at him.

He looked down for a moment, hiding the glimpse of shyness showing on his face, before raising his eyes on her again and smirking pleased. "Never," he declared, holding her tighter.

She smiled friskily at him and laced her arms around his neck, duking her head so that he could brush his lips against the side of her neck.

The soft sound of her giggle dissolved in the soothing, languorous quietness of the kitchen, giving Nate once again that profound sense of family he always felt around them.

Chuck and Blair were extremely secretive people and the gentle gestures they had for each other were hardly displayed in public. Though they had no shame in showing the most passionate side of their relationship, the delicacy and the caring tenderness their love was surprising full of belonged to their safe, private place; and that was a place Nate wasn't excluded from.

He was part of their world and of their family to the point they felt absolutely free to let their softest side show through, gifting him with their absolute trust.

Nate was still staring at them when Blair looked at him over Chuck's shoulder. She chortled in front of his vacant expression. "Are you still sleeping, Nate?" she asked.

He shrugged, trying to shake his thoughts and his somnolence off. "Pretty much," he replied smiling, before reaching out to his espresso. He finished in a single sip and cringed at the bitter taste the strong coffee had left in his mouth.

Chuck, who had turned to look at him, keeping his arm tight around his wife's waist, rolled his eyes. "You're supposed to _savor_ coffee, Nathaniel," he sighed, shaking his head. "The one you've just gracelessly swilled down costs $104 a pound."

Nate looked down at the empty china small cup on the counter wrinkling his eyebrows. Perplexed, he stared at it for a moment, before directing his gaze back to Chuck. "Whatever, man," he said, stretching his neck. "You made me wake up at four. I might fall back asleep in the limousine."

Blair laughed. "You two should go," she stated, as, swiftly, she placed herself in front of her husband to fix his already perfectly knotted bowtie. "I'm sure you don't want to waste even a minute of your hedonistic weekend," she uttered then, an undertone of playful accusation in her voice. She darted Chuck a challenging glance, which had nothing to do with jealousy. It was rather a flattered look of superiority, full of the awareness that her husband had eyes solely for her. The thought that he was possibly going to be around beautiful women and still have only her in his mind was thrilling. "I know you'll be thinking of me the whole time."

Chuck smirked naughtily. She had the proud, satisfied expression of someone who was perfectly sure of being right, the one he worshipped. He leaned in, placing a brief kiss on her lips before bending his head to side. "You should be prepared," he whispered huskily in her ear, twirling a curl around his finger and then letting it fall on her shoulder, "you and I will enjoy our own dose of hedonism once I'm back."

"I'll arrange a Bacchanal for us," she promised, her fingers sliding slowly along his jawline.

The eager expression on his best friend's face told Nate it was time to remind the Basses that he was still in the room. Embarrassed, he cleared his throat. "I guess Blair is right," he said as he stood up, raising his voice to get their attention. "We should get going. You said we're already late, didn't you?"

Chuck sighed. He stared at his wife one second more, pursing his lips. He then closed his eyes, inhaling a deep breath to convince himself to move his hands from her sides. Once he did and stepped back, a victorious glow was blushing Blair's cheek and a sly smile was curling her full lips.

He smirked back at her. "You're a devilish woman."

"Of course I am," she said, fluttering her eyelashes in a rather seductive way. "I married _The Great Chuck Bass_."

Nate, who was already standing on the doorstep waiting for his best friend to kiss his wife one last time, found himself smiling once again in front of the scene, taken by a sudden feeling of gratitude.

It was obvious that Chuck didn't _need_ to get away from the personal paradise – or glorious hell, as he would have said – his home was; he had a son and a wife he loved more than anything in the world and a fully satisfying life. He didn't need a break from it. What was essential to him, instead, was celebrating their friendship and having the chance to focus only on it for a few days.

It was a statement, a tacit declaration of renewed affection that even Nate, who wasn't the most perceptive person, could easily understand.

* * *

It hadn't even started to dawn when the limousine stopped in front of the jet. The private plane stood out against the nocturnal sky; a long line of small windows studded the side exposed to Nate's gaze, glistening with the warm light coming from inside the cabin.

As one of the two bodyguards accompanying them got out of the limousine, his eyes shifted to the already open hold door, which was connected to the ground by a short flight of steps. At the bottom of the stairs stood the pilot and a flight assistant, both rigorously dressed in a version of the uniform that most of the Basses' staff members were required to wear: a dark burgundy suit matched with a neat white dress shirt and a black tie. Nate watched the guard approaching them, exchanging a few words with the pilot and then placing himself next to him. They were obviously – and quite nervously – waiting for him and Chuck to come out of the car.

He sighed, glancing at the three man with furrowed eyebrows and a sincerely compassionate expression of his face. "We'd better get out before they freeze, man," he told Chuck.

Chuck, who was busy putting on his black cashmere scarf, turned his head and looked up at his best friend with a perplexed air. "Who are you talking about?" he asked, confused.

Nate's frown deepened. "Maxwell and those poor guys," he explained in a rather surprised voice, pointing at the jet's hold door from behind the darkened car window.

Chuck didn't bother to lift his eyes again, absolutely focused on making his hands slid into a pair of black leather gloves, careful to slip them under the sleeves of his coat. "I'm not following," he replied distractedly. "Who's Maxwell?"

An exasperated huff escaped Nate's lips. "He's been your bodyguard for over a year, man!"

The answer he received was a quite annoyed eye-rolling. "I'm an exceptionally busy man, Nathaniel; I have no time nor need to learn my employees' names," Chuck stated in a flat, indifferent tone. "And I surely have no intention of rushing because my staff _might_ be cold," he kept on. "Besides, they've all been provided with Dolce & Gabbana suits. It should be enough."

Nate shook his head. "They're not even wearing coats," he protested. "It's November, man!"

This time Chuck remained silent. He ignored Nate's incredulous stare as, as slowly as he could, he got ready to get out of the limousine. His deliberate routine – that had the clear intention of proving a point – protracted for about five minutes, during which Chuck took all the time he needed to adjust his scarf symmetrically, check on his hair twice and straighten his coat repeatedly.

Eventually, once finished, he pressed the intercom button and told the chauffeur they were ready.

Twenty minutes later they were comfortably settled and airborne. A flight attendant had escorted them into the lounge area, where a rich breakfast had been laid out on the table, along with a selection of national and international papers.

As Chuck went through the articles he was interested into, following his morning ritual, Nate was enjoying a warm pile of pancakes, topped with delicious maple syrup, and a fresh-squeezed orange juice. It was the perfect breakfast, his absolute favorite; the one he used to find on a silver tray in his room whenever he slept at the Basses' and that, after so many years, the Empire staff still brought him every morning, as per Chuck's precise instruction.

Sipping the juice, Nate couldn't help but smile, acknowledging once again the many attentions his best friend dedicated him. There was an implicit thoughtfulness between them, an unspoken promise of everlasting loyalty that renewed continuously, with every attentive gesture they destined for each other.

His relationship with Chuck and the way it had evolved over the years, following their personal journeys and leading him to be fully integrated into the family his best friend had built with Blair, was the most consistent and even the truest aspect of his life.

Glancing up from the piece he was reading, Chuck caught the small smile Nate was hiding behind his flute. "I see you appreciate the cooking," he commented with a smirk, folding the paper and setting it aside.

Nate placed the glass back on the table and grinned. "It's amazing," he replied cheerfully.

They exchanged a look, both aware that they weren't simply talking about the food. _Amazing_ was being there together, it was knowing they had a couple of days to enjoy and honor their brotherly friendship ahead of them; amazing was being aware that, even through the incessant changing and evolving of their lives, some things remained unalterable, such as their bond and their pledge to never take it for granted.

Pleased, Chuck lifted his flute in a discrete toast. "Only the best for my family," he declared.

 _The best_ was exactly the expression Nate would have used to describe the space surrounding them. Chuck's private jet was smaller than the Bass Industries executive one, but it was definitely lavisher. While the company jet had a purposely professional and sober look, the plane the Bass family used for personal trips had the same atmosphere as their house; grand and dramatic, a composition of dark high-gloss veneers, dark wood, golden onyx, satin and leather. It included an entrance vestibule, the lounge area where they were sitting, with a skylight-lit bar and a dining table, a cabin with an _en-suite_ bathroom and a secondary bedroom.

To Nate it was a little bit too much, but of course the concept of exaggeration was completely unknown to Chuck. So he nodded, raising his glass as well. "Well said, man," he answered gaily.

Once they had finished eating, they moved to the sitting area and settled on the cream leather couch. Chuck unbuttoned the jacked of his suit and leaned in towards the low table in front of them, pushing a button on the touchscreen control panel mounted on the tabletop. A wide screen popped up from the cabinet in front of them on the opposite side of the cabin.

"I had the latest version of that PlayStation you like so much installed," Chuck explained, gesturing towards the screen. "You can play as I make a few phone calls, if you please. I think there's one of Henry's strategy games on, but I suppose it isn't the type you like the most. Which is why I had Ivan pack a few of your sport ones," he kept on, smiling back at Nate's absolutely delighted and surprised expression. "They should be inside the cabinet over there, along with the console."

There was always something pure in his best friend's gaze; an unshakable light heartedness and enthusiasm for life that adulthood hadn't contaminated. It wasn't something Chuck envied or even generally appreciated in a person; if anything, he considered such candid naivety a flaw – and a quite crippling one. But his best friend was an exception to most of his believes: when it came to him, what Chuck usually considered a weakness turned into a trait he felt compelled to shelter, for the fact that trying to eradicate that innocence would have meant breaking Nate's heart in an irreparable way.

Nate was a person who needed to feel hopeful, who couldn't renounce to his honesty and, most of all, who never ceased to see the best in people. Loving him meant respecting his integrity and his good heart – even if it meant protecting him constantly. Defending him was a mission Chuck had been on ever since the earliest days of their childhood and he knew for sure it was a duty he would have kept on honoring for the rest of their lives.

Nate jumped from his seat and made his way to the cabinet, from which he extracted a couple of plastic cases. He turned his head towards Chuck, grinning at him as he lifted the boxes to show him what he had found. "There's also the golf one!" he exclaimed happily. "We can play together, man!"

Chuck smirked. He was an excellent golf player, but saying he wasn't fond of electronic games would have been an understatement, considering how much he disliked them. Still, it was a small sacrifice he could make in order to give Nate the perfect weekend.

"I'll join you as soon as I finish with my phone calls, Nathaniel," he promised, glad to see Nate's large smile widening even more. "Get started in the meantime," he told him, standing up. "I will be right back."

"Sure, take your time," Nate replied absentmindedly. He had already turned the console on and placed himself in front of the screen, controller in hand and a deeply focused expression on his face as he tried to decide which game mode he wanted to try first. "And tell Hen I say hi!"

Smiling at the thought that Nate knew that his son was the first on the list of the calls he had to make, Chuck crossed the lounge area to the bedrooms cabin's door and entered his suite.

He sat down on the bed and proceeded to call Henry. His son was getting ready for school and the conversation flowed as the kid described the outfit he had picked and his plans for the afternoon, which included a visit at Blair's atelier to try on his costume for her birthday party.

After that pleasant call, Chuck decided it was wise to ring up his uncle and make sure to remind him his directives for that day. Jack answered by telling him Bass Industries building was burning down and that he had decided to sell his shares and expatriate; an irritating way to let him know everything was running smoothly and that he had to stop worrying and enjoy his weekend.

A good half-hour later, Chuck came back into the lounge, where he found Nate swinging in front of the screen. The golf player inside the display replied the movements perfectly.

He shook his head. "Your swing isn't correct, Nathaniel," he said as he approached him. He patted lightly on his shoulder, forcing Nate to turn his head and look at him with a confused frown. Chuck chortled. "You move your chest way too much, it changes the ball's trajectory. Besides, the swing is supposed to look elegant."

Nate scoffed at the words. "You're not even good at sports," he retorted, a pout puckering his lips. "You actually hate them. Remember how clueless you were about Serena's second husband?"

Chuck frowned, annoyed by the reminder. He rolled his eyes. "That's an erroneous and rather simplistic way to describe my attitude towards sports," he said haughtily, ignoring the question. "I simply refuse to mingle with people who enjoy sweat and dirt. So yes, I despise soccer and lacrosse and all of the other vulgar and brutal athletic disciplines you are so passionate about, Nathaniel, but golf is all about precision. And," he took the controller from Nate's hands, "I'm an outstanding golfer."

The statement was followed by a glorious, perfect hole-in-one, which made Nate's lips part in surprise. "How did you do that?" he asked shocked. "I've never managed to!"

Giving him back the controller, Chuck smirked proudly. "I'll show you when we'll be on an actual green," he stated, turning towards the sofa.

Nate smiled, a glimpse of wonder and curiosity in his gaze. "So we'll go somewhere where there are golf clubs," he assumed, full of satisfaction for the way he had succeeded in obtaining a small clue about their destination.

Sitting back on the couch, Chuck looked at him straight-faced. He crossed his legs and, as he adjusted his jacket, he said: "Any civilized place in the world has a golf club. Or, at least, any place I'd set a foot in."

"Oh, come on, man!" Nate protested, letting out an exasperated sound that amused Chuck and made him purse his lips trying to repress a small laugh. "We've left, we're airborne, you can _finally_ tell me where we're going! I've been waiting for weeks!"

At last, the giggle he had been fighting to retain escaped Chuck's lips. "But keeping you hanging is tremendously entertaining, Nathaniel," he joked. Still, when Nate crossed his arms and glared at him – or, better, attempted to glare at him – he couldn't help but giving in. He had kept the secret for long enough, he thought.

"Fine," he conceded. His satisfied smirk softened in a smile. "But let me offer you a drink first."

A couple of minutes later the hostess had served them two glasses of scotch – one neat and one on the rocks. Chuck lingered before talking, sipping his drink. He took the time to savor it deliberately, granting his revelation a theatrical prelude. Nate's eyes were wide open as he waited for him to break the silence, and that barely contained fervor and impatience somehow flattered Chuck.

He smirked at his best friend over his drink, before setting the glass back on the low table. Making himself comfortable on the couch, his arm casually leaned on the backrest, he cleared his throat.

"When I started planning this weekend, months ago, my research for the location began with the thought that we needed a passionate place; a metropolis with a bohemian atmosphere and an animated night life. And then I came to realize we were acquiring a hotel in the perfect city and that the following renovations would have been completed by the end of October, which happened to be just in time for our annual retreat."

Nate had followed every word with ever-growing curiosity. He blinked, trying to remember every project Bass Industries had been developing in the past months and that Chuck had told him about, but they were far too many.

They had proprieties and activities all around the world and his long-term memory wasn't exactly the best; trying to guess was like looking for a needle in a haystack. "So where is it, man?" he asked when he understood he had no chance of deducting anything from Chuck's introduction.

Chuck took another slow sip of his drink before answering, looking down to the amber liquid filling the glass. It was only after a couple of seconds that he glanced up, a satisfied expression making his stare even sharper. "We'll be staying at the former Four Seasons of Buenos Aires, which is now officially part of the Bass chain and renamed _Facundo_."

When he finished talking, Nate's expression, which had been lighting up with increasing eagerness at every word uttered, was the picture of the most vivid euphoria. "Buenos Aires?" he repeated enthusiastically, a bright beam crossing his joyful face. "I think the last time I've been there was during —"

"During the summer of 2011, yes," Chuck concluded his sentence with a half-smile. "It was one of the stops of our vacation," he kept on then, lowering his gaze. His voice had become deeper, an echo of those few months of many years ago; bittersweet days of pain and comfort, of lost love and profound friendship. "It seemed like an appropriate place to celebrate our friendship."

The perfect place to think back and express gratitude, Chuck would have wanted to add, but he kept the words to himself, trying to translate them into the steady look and the genuine smile he gave Nate as soon as he turned silent.

Their friendship had resisted the toughest moments of their lives, it had often been the shelter in the middle of each other's solitude; a rock, a safe harbor made of a few words and many meaningful gestures. And Chuck knew Nate understood exactly what he was thinking about. He saw it in his clear eyes, in his warm expression and in the way he nodded wordlessly, for there was nothing else to add.

* * *

The jet landed in at the _Ezeiza International Airport_ at five pm sharp. Buenos Aires welcomed them with a beautiful clear sky, the first sign that they had left New York's cold autumn behind and made their ways into spring.

Coming out of the hold door, Nate smiled at the sun shining above them and closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the mild heat as he took a deep breath of fresh air. Bright, warm days always put him in a cheerful mood and the spontaneous glee that the sunrays brushing his face had given him combined with the happiness of being there with Chuck.

He turned to look at his best friend with a wide grin spreading across his face. Behind him, Chuck was frowning. While Nate had already climbed down a couple of steps, he was still standing on the doorstep and his expression looked rather bothered.

Chuck guided his hand to his forehead trying to protect his eyes from the light; then, with a sigh of annoyance, he gestured towards the bodyguard standing beside him. "Glasses," he demanded.

Immediately the man extracted a pair of dark lens sunglasses from the inner poker of his suit and handed them to Chuck, who put them on, inhaling another displeased sigh.

Witnessing the scene, Nate found himself shaking his head and giggling, sincerely amused by his best friend's absurdly dramatic demeanor.

Chuck's frown became more evident as he turned his attention at Nate. "What's so funny, Nathaniel?" he asked, straightening the jacket of the pastel light blue cotton suit he had changed into before landing.

"You, man," Nate answered candidly, a soft laugh still tinging his words with mockery. "Sun makes you grumpy."

Even if he couldn't see them, Nate knew Chuck had rolled his eyes behind the black lens of his bodyguard's Ray-ban. "I'm not _grumpy_. I simply have delicate eyes," he clarified, a hint of irritation in his tone, as they walked down the stairs. "Too much light gives me headache. Luckily we'll be enjoying the city mostly by night."

Repressing a chortle that would have offended Chuck, Nate accepted his explanation with a nod.

He looked down at the runway they had landed on and finally noticed a man anxiously waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs. Judging by the uniform, he realized, he had to be someone from the hotel's staff came to welcome them. Indeed, when they reached the ground, the man promptly approached Chuck.

"Welcome to Buenos Aires, Mr. Bass. It's a great pleasure to finally meet you. My name is Osvaldo Castro, I'm theFacundo's hotel manager," he introduced himself, stretching his arm to shake Chuck's hand. When Chuck limited himself to lower his sunglasses slightly, darting him a stern look, the manager immediately pulled back his arm. He cleared his throat, trying to keep on with his speech. "We're very excited to have you here, Mr. Bass; your presence at the opening was deeply missed."

Chuck pursed his lips, taking a moment to adjust the glasses. After a few seconds of silence, he heaved a long sigh and asked: "Remind me what is your job?"

The man blinked, confused. "I'm the hotel manager, sir," he replied tentatively.

"Precisely," Chuck answered with a nod. "Your job is to _manage_ someone else's propriety. In other words, you've been hired specifically so that I could be absent; or, to be clearer, you've been hired so that the person I delegated this project to could be absent. It's how a company as big as mine works: like a pyramid. My presence should never be taken for granted."

The manager's eyes opened wide with fright at the words. "Of course, sir," he stuttered. "I didn't mean to offend you; I was just expressing my gratitude for having you here visiting the hotel. Your judgement is —"

"My guest and I have faced a long and exhausting flight," Chuck cut him off. "We'd like to be escorted to the hotel. As for my judgement on your work, I'm impatient to verify if the management has respected the high standards of my chain so far, which is what this conversation is keeping me from doing."

With this statement, Chuck walked past the man and made his way to the limousine waiting for them.

Nate smiled timidly at the visibly traumatized manager before following his best friend.

"I think you were a bit harsh, man," he told him when he reached him. "He didn't say anything wrong."

Right before entering the car, Chuck turned his head to look at Nate. "That's beside the point, Nathaniel," he stated, a somewhat vicious smirk accompanying the authoritarian tone he had used. "Instilling fear is essential to make sure people will do their job decently."

As he slid into the limousine in silence – it was always better not to reply to Chuck's tyrannical declarations –, Nate found himself wondering about how little people actually knew the man sitting next to him. A smile rose to his lips and hovered there at the thought that they were completely clueless about his best friend's immense ability to love.

Those who didn't belong to his family could only see a coldblooded man, a person who was incapable of showing empathy; the outside world knew nothing about the devotion, the attention and the utter trust his loved ones were blessed with.

But Nate did. He knew everything about the loving person Chuck could be. He had seen tears of joy in his eyes the day Henry was born, he had seen him being the most affectionate father to his son and a faithful, adoring husband to his wife. He had seen him being a protective brother and a caring son. But, most of all, he had experienced his absolute loyalty and his enduring patience; he had lived with the complete certainty that he was always going to be forgiven and welcomed without judgement, that he was always going to be encouraged, supported and respected.

He had been lucky enough to go through his life made stronger by the profound, honest and solid friendship Chuck had given him.

* * *

The Presidential suite, where the hotel manager had personally escorted Chuck and Nate after their arrival, was located on the top floor of the hotel's early 20th century French mansion; from its wide balcony, it overlooked the luxuriant park and the outdoor Roman-style swimming pool, behind which a contemporary high-rise tower, the other building the Facundo included, loomed up against the darkening sky.

Leaned against the terrace's balustrade, Nate was staring at the pool, captivated by the way the water captured the sun rays and made them glisten over its surface, creating a certain gilded glow all around the poolside. That combination of details – the sky's vivid blue turning paler with the imminent sunset and the golden stipes of dimmer sunlight sparkling over the stretch of water – made him sigh deeply, overtaken by a sudden sense of nostalgic melancholy.

The colors offered by the view had blended in his mind and took the shape of a tanned Serena, making his memory linger on the recollection of golden locks falling on a nude back, the time she had decided the last day of their honeymoon in Madagascar had to be celebrated by swimming naked in the Indian Ocean.

Her childish, cheerful laughter echoed in his ears, and his eyelids went shut, rejecting the cruel truth that she wasn't there. She didn't belong to him anymore and maybe she had never had; she belonged to her wildness and to her freedom, to the life of continuous change he hadn't been able to give her. Their marriage had lasted only one year.

With that last bitter thought, Nate forced himself to shake his head to get rid of the reminiscences. He glanced one last time at the landscape, before making his way back into the suite's living room. He looked around as he crossed the French doors, trying to figure out if Chuck was back.

His best friend had left forty minutes ago, to conduct a thorough examination of the hotel. Though Chuck had promised it would have taken him half an hour at maximum, Nate knew better than to trust his punctuality when it came to these matters. There was no way his perfectionism would have allowed him to examine the propriety and the management so quickly.

Indeed, Nate wasn't surprised to find the opulent room still empty. He heaved a long sigh and decided he would have tried to shake off the sadness that had caught him with a shower. He was still wearing the same suit he had traveled with, and he knew for sure that Chuck would have complained if he hadn't changed before dinner. So, willing avoid that consequence, he started pacing slowly towards the bedroom that had been arranged for him.

Walking through the penthouse, he found himself smiling from the nice sense of belonging the environment gave him. The suite featured the typical use of gold, black and lavish materials the Bass hotels never lacked of, welcoming him with the same regal, grand atmosphere that greeted him every time he set a foot into a place that had been ideated according to Chuck's taste – whether it was his home, his office or any of his buildings.

It was a heartwarming feeling, and, when he entered the shower, Nate decided that he wasn't going to let melancholy ruin even just a moment of the weekend he got to spend with his best friend.

Still, when Chuck came back, he understood immediately that something had spoiled Nate's mood. Stepping into the informal living room, he found him at the pool table, intent to stare at the colored balls with vacant eyes. He had abandoned his cue on the tabletop to smoke what Chuck recognized to be a joint from his own cigarette case – the smell was unmistakable.

His eyebrows furrowed in a perplexed frown in front of the scene. There was something odd about it, that didn't have anything to do with Nate's little theft (there was no such a thing as propriety between them; his best friend simply took his things as if they belonged to him); it was the obvious gloominess darkening the blonde's face to be strange, an exception to the usual jovial lightness of his expression.

Determined to find out the reason behind it, Chuck walked over to where Nate was standing. "I'm sorry it took me longer than I expected," he began announcing himself as he approached his best friend, who raised his gaze and offered him a pale smile.

"It's okay, man," Nate replied distractedly, as his eyes went back to the table.

Chuck grabbed a cue to join him in the game. "I must admit my uncle did an impeccable job," he commented casually, as he focused on the blue and white ball in front of him. Leaning in, he hit it with a blunt yet precise shot and followed it with his gaze till it disappeared into the hole he had chosen. Then, satisfied, he smirked. "I'm gonna have to compliment him."

Nate huffed, before taking another drag of smoke. "Yeah," he commented, collecting his cue, "you're gonna have to give him another reason to brag." To conclude, he smashed the blue ball so gracelessly that Chuck couldn't help but scowl with plain disapproval for a second.

However, he didn't voice the criticizing remark he would have normally uttered with an undertone of haughtiness. Instead, he simply turned, resting his lower back against the side of the pool table, and, staring at Nate attentively, he said: "I see you've started partying without me." When Nate eyed him confusedly, Chuck nodded at the almost finished joint he was holding in between his fingers.

"It's not partying," Nate replied with a shrug, "I just needed something to shut my thoughts off."

"Shut your thoughts off?" Chuck's eyebrows raised, giving him a quite skeptical expression. "Though the high-quality hash you're smoking will definitely have that effect on you, I don't quite understand the necessity, Nathaniel. We're on vacation; you're not supposed to worry about a thing."

"Yeah," the blonde sighed, before turning silent.

As Nate tried to sharpen his aim, narrowing his eyes and concentrating on the red ball, Chuck reached out to the sterling silver cigarette case and monogrammed lighter that his best friend had left on the edge of the table and extracted a perfectly rolled joint as well. With a sigh, he lighted up it up.

He granted himself the time to take a first long drag and placidly blow out some smoke before asking: "So, are you going to tell me or will I have to figure it out on my own, Nate?"

Nate turned his head towards him and shot him a quizzical glance, puzzled not simply by the vague question, but also by the way Chuck had called him – he never used his nickname, unless he was concerned. "Tell you what?"

Chuck inhaled another draw of his joint and he slowly pursed his lips to exhale it. The extreme calm of his movements was meant to give Nate the sense that he was perfectly sure of the words he was going to pronounce. "The reason why you look so obviously miserable," he stated with relaxed composure, giving his tone the flat sound of obviousness.

"I don't –"

An oblique, stern look from his best friend kept Nate form continuing with his attempt to contradict him. He heaved a long sigh and, lowering his eyes, he shook his head a little. "Do you have regrets?" he asked quietly.

A slight smirk crossed Chuck's lips, as he wondered about the question. He had lived a life of remorse – the many things he did wrong and those he wished he had done better – but not a life of regret. He had fought for his happiness, experienced the world wholly and achieved his goals. He had suffered from the most excruciating pain and basked in the most profound joy. He had lived such a full existence that he felt much older than his thirty-five years; wiser, stronger, deeper.

"No. Not relevant ones, at least," he answered. "So far, I'm everything I wanted to be."

Nate nodded. "See, I can't feel that way," he replied saddened. He stole the joint from Chuck, took a small drag and added: "I wanted a real marriage, you know. And kids. I regret not fighting enough for these things. I should have."

Chuck looked down for a moment, sliding his hands into the pockets of his trousers. He knew Nate was a happy man, but he also acknowledged that life hadn't given him as much as he had been lucky enough to conquer. Nate's experience of love had been crippled by a woman who rejected bonds and who had never really wanted to build the safe, steady home he desired. His dream of having a child had also faded with Serena's decision not to include motherhood in the picture of her journey. Where Nate wanted to settle down, the person he loved couldn't.

"But you did," Chuck stated, trying to remind him that he had done everything possible to keep his marriage from falling apart, even against his advice. He had witnessed that pointless, hurtful struggle without being able to protect Nate; Serena had always been the one thing Chuck had never managed to shelter his best friend from. "I was there, Nathaniel. You couldn't have tried harder."

Nate shook his head. "Well, it was pointless. She left anyways."

Chuck could have told Nate that the fact that he had lost Serena didn't mean he had to renounce to the life he wanted for himself, but as soon as he thought about it, he realized it would have been a senseless reassurance. He had never been able to picture himself marrying someone who wasn't Blair, much less becoming a father without her; he hadn't even tried to.

So, he looked at him sympathetically and affirmed: "You do have a family, though. You'll always have one."

The simple statement made Nate's lips curl in a weak smile. "I know, man," he said, reaching out to pat lightly on his best friend's back.

The genuineness of that gesture and the spontaneity with which Nate rested his hand on his shoulder after, made Chuck smile back. That contact was, at the same time, simple and special; it was familiar, it held a naturalness that was the result of the incalculable times it had been repeated, but it also exposed the closeness and the intimacy of their relationship; it conveyed the trust that has strengthened their bond over the years until it had become indestructible

He locked eyes with Nate and, doing so, he felt relieved, always happy to remind the man next to him, the one who was more a brother than a best friend, that he would have never allowed him to feel lonely.

* * *

An hour later, Chuck had showered and changed in a new suit. Freshened up, he made his way to the formal living room, sure that he would have found Nate waiting for him there, impatient to dine out. They had a table reserved at _Elena_ , one of the hotel's restaurants, for 9 pm; they would have enjoyed an excellent meal and then come back to the suite for a relaxing night spent playing pool and chatting – the perfect way to adjust to the time change and rest after the trip without renouncing to the fun.

When he stepped into the room, though, he discovered that his best friend was everything but ready for dinner. Chuck found him lying down on the plush couch, his shoes and his jacket abandoned on the carpet; he had both hands tucked under his head and his eyes were closed. He had placed his old iPod – the one he refused to chance – on his chest, and turned up the volume to the maximum.

It was so high that, even if he was several steps away from the sofa, Chuck could still distinguish some dramatic melody coming from the device.

Frowning in front of the scene, Chuck approached the couch. He was starting to identify the music the headphones were piping into his best friend's ears and that insight certainly didn't please him.

On the contrary, it concerned him, for he knew that, if his hearing hadn't betrayed him, he would have soon found out that Nate wasn't simply still in the bad, regretful mood Chuck hadn't managed to shake him from, but that he was actually facing one of the existential crisis that sometimes caught him – cruel, inevitable imposition of his broken but never mended heart.

His bad presentiment found a confirmation when, reached the sofa, Chuck leaned over and glanced at the iPod's screen. The name of the playlist Nate had picked and the list of songs that appeared under it forced Chuck to inhale a sharp, frustrated sigh: below a cryptic " **S** " (which, to Chuck, wasn't cryptic at all) a compilation of old Backstreet Boys songs came in succession.

Shaking his head, Chuck reached out to the headphones and pulled the wire, interrupting his best friend's lachrymose listening of _Show Me the Meaning of Being Lonely._

Startled, Nate opened his eyes wide and gasped. His lips, that till that moment had been silently pronouncing the lyrics' fervent words, stopped moving and parted in surprise.

"Man!" he exclaimed, clumsily trying to sit up. Looking down at him, Chuck raised an eyebrow at the blonde's guilty expression as he watched him collect the iPod and attempt to hide the screen against is lap. "I was just, umh…"

"Listening to ' **S** '," Chuck concluded the sentence for him with a sigh.

Unable to hold up his best friend's serious and concerned gaze, Nate lowered his eyes in the tacit, embarrassed admission of a weakness that, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't overcome.

Not having the slightest intention to make him feel ashamed, Chuck limited himself to sit down next to him, avoiding to express his thoughts just yet.

"I wanted to delate it you know," Nate uttered slowly. "But I couldn't bring myself to do it. Not after last month."

Chuck conveyed his empathy in a wordless nod, well aware of what his best friend was referring to. At the beginning of October, Serena had once again crashed Nate's hopes to rebuild a stable relationship with her, dismissing the newest brief affair she had dragged him into as " _a simple nostalgic throwback_ " to which Nate, according to her, " _had given too much meaning_ ".

That ultimate separation hadn't come as a surprise to Chuck, who had predicted the inevitable epilogue of the reemerged liaison the moment he had deducted, from a series of unusual behaviors, that his best friend and his step sister were once again romantically – and confusedly – involved.

Reaching that conclusion had been all too easy. The signs preluding the unfortunate reunification – which, in the past twelve years, had always presented themselves in same way – had been too obvious for him not to notice them. As it had happened each time Serena had made her way back into his life, Nate had tried to hide it from Chuck, adopting a series of clumsy expedients.

For a week, he had avoided to show up for dinner at the Basses and, more than once, he had betrayed his habit of calling his best friend during lunch break. Out of shame, Nate had attempted to escape Chuck's ability to read through him.

Unsuccessfully, of course. In a matter of days, he had found himself in front of his best friend, ready to confess him a secret that, to Chuck, was everything but one.

As usual, Chuck had found himself conflicted between the need to protect Nate by expressing his concerned disapproval and the guilt he felt at the thought of suffocating his best friend's enthusiasm with a realistic and probably cynical comment. He couldn't; not when the most hopeful, genuine smile was crossing Nate's joyful face.

So, choosing to do what he had opted for each time this circumstance had represented itself, he had given Nate his support, but kept himself ready to try to put back together the pieces of a broken heart. After all, as Blair kept telling him, there was nothing else he could do fix to the situation.

Over more than a decade, he had witnessed Nate and Serena's relationship dissolve and rebuild itself so many times that, if he hadn't been so involved, he would have lost the count; and, on every occasion, he had felt as if he was watching a car crash in slow motion.

 _He had observed his step sister running back to Nate whenever she had found herself at an impasse in her love story with Dan Humphrey, seeking for the unconditional love and the freedom her future husband couldn't give her; a hurting yet regular pattern that had repeated itself five times in five years, leaving Nate destroyed on every occasion she had punctually and inevitably come back to the man she longed to marry._

 _Not even once Chuck had been able to prevent Nate from building the optimistic, naïve hope that Serena would have finally understood he made her happier and decided he was the one she would have settled down with._

 _Indeed, she hadn't. Serena had married Daniel Humphrey at the beginning of 2017, leaving Nate to watch her utter her promises to someone who didn't understand her and didn't deserve her._

 _That pain, though, had managed to give him the shake he needed to try to move on. Chuck remembered those days with pride; it had been around that time that his best friend had finally convinced himself to run for mayor and given him the chance to stand by his side during a journey that wasn't merely about ambitions, but also about a certain need to let go of the past and strive for a rebirth._

 _Six months later, Nate was in the middle of his campaign and Serena was facing a nasty divorce, which Dan had turned into a vicious scandal when he had decided to write an expose about the crisis of their marriage, which, according to him, had been caused by his wife's inability to live following the standards of a "normal domestic life"._

 _Humiliated, Serena had signed divorce papers before Chuck's protective stare and tucked into Blair's embrace._

 _It had been thanks to the comforting nature of love that Serena and Nate had gotten close again. She was broken by what had happened and Nate, who had never been able to see her suffering without stepping in, had felt the necessity to shelter her and give her back the bright smile she was famous for._

 _By the beginning of spring, Nate was fully convinced he had managed to conquer the love of his life for good. Chuck, knowing his step sister all too well and understanding her and her constant struggle against herself, had tried to warn him to be careful, but, again, he hadn't succeeded._

 _Serena's decision to leave for Europe had come completely unexpected to his best friend, whose heart had shattered at the words she had pronounced to explain her decision. She wanted to experience her freedom again, she had told him, to find herself, and she couldn't do it by being in serious relationship at the same time._

 _It was a choice no one could question, not even Nate, who had accepted her decision with sadness but also with empathy. Her ex-husband had suffocated her for years, trying to force her to change into a different person, and it was only logical that, now that she was free, she needed to remind herself who she really was and what she really wanted._

 _Too bad that, only a couple of months after, she had come back to New York engaged to an internationally famous football player, whom she had stubbornly decided to marry in a matter of weeks._

 _Back then, Chuck had felt an irrepressible rush of anger towards that irresponsible decision._

 _It had left him with an irritating sense of powerlessness; not just because it had broken Nate's heart once again, but also because it had made him become even more aware of the fact that Serena was an eternally unsatisfied person. His step-sister couldn't stop. She had in her a natural aversion for stability, which had established its root and grown on a ground of self-loathing and insecurity; since she couldn't accept herself, she did everything to run away from anyone who would have granted her love, constancy, happiness. She kept haunting for a missing piece that she would have never found, for what she truly lacked of was self-awareness and respect for herself._

 _The brotherly love he had for her, though, would have never allowed him to judge her. Even if it meant putting aside the resentment he couldn't help but feel each time he saw Nate struggling to live with the scars she had left on him, he was always ready to welcome her back into their family whenever she returned. He was constantly prepared to unravel her mistakes._

 _Which was why he hadn't hesitated to help her when she had confessed him that she wanted a new divorce, just like he had taken care of Daniel Humphrey a year before._

 _By the October of 2018 Serena was once again a free woman. Unexpectedly conscious of her faults, she had made her way back into Nate's life with delicacy. She had rebuilt their friendship first and then, step by step, she had managed to get back his trust and to make him declare his love for her once again._

 _Nate and Serena had announced their engagement the night Nate had won the elections. Chuck, who was the only one in the room aware of the fact that his best friend had proposed to her, had watched the scene with a smile on his face. The ring he had helped Nate pick for her was a mark that would have made their family stronger and the fact that two of the people he loved the most in the world were finding the happiness he had always wanted for them (and that they were finding it in each other) had given him joy._

 _The golden couple had pronounced vows on an especially hot August day of 2019. The wedding had been so beautiful and Serena and Nate had looked so blissful that even Chuck, who was pessimistic by nature and didn't believe in any marriage but his own, had ended up trusting it would have lasted._

 _But, as Blair enjoyed reminding him, he wasn't always right. Under the pressure of being continuously exposed as mayor's wife, oppressed by the limitations that were imposed on her by the circumstances, Serena had soon started to slip into a familiar feeling of dissatisfaction and impatience._

 _Nate had fought hard to keep her running away, to give her the freedom she needed, but, eventually, his efforts had been unsuccessful. After a year and a half of marriage, Serena had left him with a note and disappeared. Two months of silence later, Nate had received divorce papers coming from her father's house in Greece – and Chuck had found in himself the tact not to tell him about the pictures his private detective had provided him with, pictures showing that Carter Baizen had joined her there._

"I'm not even sure I want to," Nate added after a long pause of silence.

Shaken from his thoughts, Chuck pursed his lips and took a moment to filter the harshness of his judgment and express what he needed to say in a delicate way. "Though it would be a step in the right direction, delating a few songs from your iPod won't magically cancel Serena from your mind, Nathaniel," he eventually pronounced himself.

Nate stared back at him with an anguished expression, which made Chuck sigh. "Frankly, I' not convinced you can forget her at all," he kept on. His tone, flat and clam, reflected the absolute sincerity of his words. He wasn't going to lie to Nate; his best friend deserved the value of an honest opinion. "But I do believe that you can let go of the hope to get from her something she can't give you. You need to set yourself free from the expectations that keep hurting you."

Nate inhaled a deep breath and titled his head back on the couch's backrest. His eyes went shut for a moment, as he tried to collect his thoughts.

Chuck, aware of the weight of his words, didn't push him to reply right away. He waited patiently for Nate to look at him again and, when he finally met his gaze, he offered him an encouraging slight smile.

"But I can't give up on her, Chuck," Nate said. Uttering that statement, which had in it a conviction that sounded almost desperate, his voice trembled a little. "I did already. I surrendered. I couldn't give her what she wanted."

Chuck shook his head. He would have never humiliated Nate by allowing him to take the blame for something he wasn't guilty of. "No one could," he replied, unable to repress a deep end of bitterness in his tone – for the way Nate was suffering and for the concern he always felt towards his sister. "And no one will until she'll realize she deserves to be loved and accepted for who she is. She doesn't run away from you, Nate. She runs away from herself."

Nate remained silent. Chuck, who knew his best friend needed his time to fully comprehend the meaning of the advice he had just given him and therefore wasn't expecting an answer, stood up.

He adjusted and buttoned up his jacket, before patting his hand on Nate's shoulder. "Come on, Nathaniel," he said with a smirk when his best friend glanced up on him. "We're going out."

Nate had furrowed his eyebrows in a confused frown. "Are we?" he had asked disoriented, his wide blue eyes narrowing as he tried to decipher Chuck's intentions. "I thought you wanted to stay in tonight."

Chuck let out a theatrical sigh. "I did, indeed," he affirmed, his smirk turning sharper. "But I'm willing to make this sacrifice to give you just what you need. And what you absolutely need is a night out; one that possibly ends with a woman in your bed."

"But, man –"

"Do you remember the rules of Lost Weekend, Nathaniel?" Chuck interrupted him with raised eyebrows and an eloquent expression.

A chuckle finally escaped Nate's lips. "Eat what you provide, practice what you preach and until you say so the only girls I talk to are the ones you paid for?"

"Precisely," Chuck answered with a nod. "Now," he chortled, "I'm confident I won't have to pay for your entertainment, for I know you're perfectly capable of finding yourself a distraction from your broken heart. But, as for the rest, I must demand you to get up and follow me. We have a long night ahead of us, and I'd like to face it with some food in my system."

* * *

A waiter had just taken away their empty dessert plates and served them two ristretto coffees when Chuck extracted a paper and a sterling silver pen from the inner pocket of his suit.

Intrigued, Nate bent his head slightly to side and, leaning over, he tried to peek at the sheet of paper his best friend had accurately unfolded over the dark wood table. "What's that, man?" he asked curious, his eyes narrowed in the attempt to read what seemed to be a list.

Chuck looked up at him and smirked. "It's a selection of clubs worthy of our visit. I personally took the time to put it together before leaving."

"That's just…" Nate laughed over his coffee cup, "obsessive-compulsive?"

An offended scowl immediately showed on Chuck's face. "It is not, Nathaniel. It's called being organized," he stated with a sigh. "We're in a metropolis; how am I supposed to decide where to go without having a list of possible choices?"

A new, louder laugh from Nate made Chuck roll his eyes. "I don't know, man," the blond commented with an innocent shrug. "Maybe we could just follow our instinct."

Chuck slowly reached for his coffee, brought the small cup to his lips and took a deliberate sip. "Not every club is the same," he explained after in a somewhat bored voice. "I'm looking for something rather…" he made a pause, seeking for the perfect word to convey what he meant, " _dissolute_. You need decadent places, Nathaniel; a good dose of debauchery to remind yourself that you still have a long life of pleasures to experience ahead of you."

Amused by the words, Nate ducked his head and let out a chortle. "Just out of curiosity, does Blair know about this plan?"

Chuck, who had started to cross off some names from his list, didn't glance up. "Of course she does," he answered unconcerned, as if the reply was absolutely obvious. Then, raising his eyebrows, he eyed Nate. "Why wouldn't she?"

"And she has no objections?" Nate questioned.

A promiscuous smile rose to Chuck's lips. "Absolutely not," he told Nate, a hint of pride and satisfaction in his words. "She's actually turned on by the idea of me spending the night in such licentious places. She'll definitely ask for a full report. It _pleases_ her, if you know what I mean."

Nate opened his mouth to comment the revelation that, truth to be told, hadn't really surprised him, but Chuck didn't give him the time.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to make few phone calls to arrange our night out," he said as he stood up, slipping the paper back into the inner pocket. "I need to make sure we'll have tables reserved and every stop and I'd rather not telling you where we're going. Surprise makes everything better, doesn't it?"

With that rhetorical question, he turned and slowly walked away from table, leaving Nate to stare at him with an expression of pure amusement.

* * *

They left the hotel twenty minutes later and, by midnight, their limousine pulled up to the sidewalk of a quiet street in Villa Crespo, on the cusp of the Palermo district.

As Chuck gave instructions to the driver to be ready to pick them up in about two hours, Nate stared at the dimly illuminated and empty street from behind the darkened car window with a confused expression. He couldn't spot any neon signs indicating the presence of a fancy club.

Furrowing his eyebrows, he turned to look at his best friend. "I think we're in the wrong place, man," he said hesitantly. "There's nothing here."

Chuck limited himself to eye him for a second and then smirked. "Follow me, Nathaniel," he demanded, a clear shade of satisfaction in his voice, and gestured for Nate to slid out of the vehicle.

Used to Chuck's secretive ways and well aware that his surprises had never disappointed him, Nate nodded and exited the car, whispering a kind thank you at his best friend's bodyguard, who had kept the door open for him. Chuck came out of the limousine right after and moved a few steps towards one of the buildings the road was lined with.

Puzzled, Nate hurried to come up beside him. "Do you know anyone who lives here?" he wondered, darting a glance at the two towering wooden doors in front of them. It looked exactly like a regular apartment entrance; it even had its house number – 878. Then, enlightened by a sudden thought, he rested his hand on Chuck's shoulder and, lowering his voice to a faint whisper, he asked: "Do you need to buy smoke, maybe?"

At the question, Chuck turned. He raised his eyebrows at Nate's amused smile and, repressing a chortle, he shook his head. "Of course not. I've got enough of it for the rest our weekend," he replied, a sharp smirk revealing his contentment. "Besides," he kept on, "I wouldn't buy anything that doesn't come from my trusted person in New York."

When Chuck turned back without adding another word, an absolutely confused expression appeared on Nate's face. Observing as his best friend reached out to the small doorbell and delicately pushed the button, he held his breath with a pinch of alarm. "Then why did you ring that bell? Is this some kind of brothel, Chuck?

The words made Chuck snicker. His hilarity wasn't caused by the scenario Nate had pictured – which, after all, wasn't that implausible –, but by the undertone of anxiety and irrepressible excitement that had accompanied his question. Nate was far from being an unexperienced teenager, but sometimes he certainly sounded like one. Entertained, Chuck decided he didn't want to contradict him just yet. "Well, you'll find out in a moment," he answered enigmatically.

Just as Chuck finished pronouncing his reply, the door opened. An especially good looking hostess smiled kindly at them from the doorstep. "Mr. Bass, Mr. Archibald," she greeted them with a nod, "we were waiting for you. Allow me to usher you inside."

Crossing the entrance, Chuck and Nate stepped into the low-lit foyer of an elegant lounge bar. The woman that had received them closed the door behind Chuck's bodyguard and approached them again. "Welcome to _Ocho7Ocho_ ," she said with the same twinkly grin. "We're honored to receive a visit from you, Mr. Bass. Being chosen by such a legendary club owner is truly a privilege. As per your request, we reserved a table for you and Mr. Archibald."

"A quiet table, I hope," Chuck stated coldly.

Not discouraged by his strict and distant tone, the hostess smiled again. "Of course, Mr. Bass. We arranged your table in our inner room; I'm sure you'll find it discrete. If you follow me, I'll escort you."

Chuck allowed her to show them the way with a wordless nod. The woman promptly walked past them and opened the door which led to the main room.

Following her and finally entering the club, Nate looked around and found himself laughing. "So it's not a brothel," he told Chuck as he looked around the crowded space. "It's a secret bar!"

"Exactly, Nathaniel," Chuck confirmed. "It's a former speakeasy. Of course it is all above board now, but, as you can see, they kept the illicit vibe."

The red brick walls, the back-lit bar and the low lounge seating indeed reminded him of a drinking hole from prohibition area, Nate wondered, as they made their ways between the counter and a line of dinner tables. Once they reached the opposite side of the room, the hostess guided them through a metal door, behind which a smaller and more intimate lounge was located. It was darker and far less packed. Another fully stoked bar occupied the wall on the left, while, on the back, a few spacious couches were settled behind small tables.

One of them had been arranged for them. It was in the middle of two other empty tables, which had definitely been kept unoccupied to grant them the privacy Chuck had demanded when he had called to announce their arrival.

"This is your table," the hostess said, inviting them to take a seat with a gesture. "As you can see, we made sure to reserve you a separate spot."

Two menus were already arranged on the bare tabletop and, sitting down, Chuck grabbed one. As Nate made himself comfortable next to him on the velvet couch, he started to dip into the list of drinks and cocktails. "I see you have a vast selection of whiskeys," he commented.

"Over eighty types, Mr. Bass," the woman punctually replied. "I'll leave you and Mr. Archibald to enjoy your night. A waitress will soon be here to take your orders."

As the hostess walked away, Nate tilted his head to side. "That's a pretty revealing outfit," he observed, casting a sidelong glance at her back.

Chuck raised his eyes from the menu, turned his head slightly to glance at the extremely short sequin dress the woman was wearing and then smirked at his best friend. "Keep your enthusiasm under control for now, Nathaniel," he said, as he brought his attention back at the list. "Enjoy drinking whiskey with your best friend first. You have all night to seal the deal with some daring argentine woman. Besides, she's dark haired. You obviously prefer blondes."

* * *

Two hours and quite a few whiskeys later Chuck and Nate exited the club and stopped in front of the entrance to smoke a cigar. In spite of the time, the mild temperature made it pleasant to spend a few minutes outside.

A little bit more than tipsy, Nate leaned against the building's wall and, laughing, he closed his eyes. "This place is like a temple to the art of drinking," he exclaimed cheerfully, after having taken a deep breath of fresh air. "I mean, I had no idea so many kinds of whiskey even existed, man!"

Next to him Chuck was adjusting his jacket after having pulled out the cigar case from the inner pocket. "You're absolutely unaware of several things, Nathaniel," he said. The ironic wit of his statement was softened by the half-smile curling his lips, as, kindly, he handed his best friend a Toscano cigar.

Taking it, Nate narrowed his eyes and shoot Chuck a disoriented look. "Like what?" he asked.

The question made Chuck chortle. "Like the fact that you can't hold a cigar the way you hold a cigarette," he pointed out, looking at the way Nate had precariously placed the Toscano in between his index and middle finger. "You're supposed to grip it gently with your thumb and your index," he explained, extracting one for himself from the case. "Like this," he described, settling the cigar in between his fingers in the correct way. "Thumb to the side and index over the top; as if you were using a pool cue."

Nate chuckled. "I can't wait for you to teach Henry," he commented, taking the first drag. "I so want a picture of Blair's face when she'll see you guys sharing one of these."

Laughing as well, Chuck shook his head. "She'll have to live with it," he replied with a shrug.

By the time they finished smoking, Nate had a pretty unmistakable vacant expression on his face. Realizing that the cigar had aggravated his best friend's slight drunken state, Chuck darted a glance the limousine waiting for them and motioned for his driver to open the car door.

"Let's get to our next stop now, Nathaniel," he proposed, as, gently, he pushed Nate's shoulder with a hand, bringing him to move from the wall. "It's even better than this club."

Nate giggled. "I bet," he replied with a large, silly smile. "Because you're Chuck Bass and Chuck Bass knows things. And I do too," he paused, nodding his head and pointing at Chuck with his finger. "Because I'm your best friend."

Chuck couldn't help but snickering at Nate's incoherent words. "Alcohol and smoke make you bright, Nathaniel. You've just put two absolute truths in one sentence," he replied, starting to lead him towards the limousine. As they walked, he took the chance to pat his hand on his friend's back and sweep away some of the dust the wall had left of his dark blue suit. "I definitely know everything that is worth knowing."

Nate stopped walking. He gazed at Chuck with furrowed eyebrows. "But, that's just one truth," he objected doubtfully, "you said they were two."

A tiny smile bent the corners of Chuck's lips. "The second unquestionable fact is that you have the privilege of being my best friend."

"Are you sure it's a privilege?" Nate chortled, as he moved a couple of unsure steps towards the car door. When he reached it, he turned to look at Chuck, who had stayed still. The frown on his face made Nate laugh again, this time louder. "You can be a real pain in the ass, you know that?"

Knowing that Nate didn't mean to offend him, Chuck rolled his eyes at the joke and followed him into the car. Once inside, Nate abandoned his head on the backrest, stretched his legs on the empty seats and loosened his tie. Then, slowly, he turned his head to bring his eyes on Chuck. "I was kidding, man," he said as a bright, gentle smile spread across his lively face. He reached out to his best friend's arm and rubbed it in an affectionate gesture. "You're awesome," he kept on with a giggle, as his eyes went shut. "Just great."

Shaking his head, Chuck heaved a long sigh. He couldn't repress a thankful smile as well, while, thoughtful, he took a glass from the bar cabinet and poured some water in it. "Drink it, Nathaniel," he said with a chuckle, handing the glass to Nate. "You need to sober up a bit. It's only 2 am; the night is still long."


	3. Day 2

**AN:** Hello readers! I hope you're well. Here's the third update to this story. It's a shorter chapter, but I hope you'll enjoy it regardless. The next update will be the last chapter, and it'll be longer. Coming to the details, in this chapter there's a small reference to a scene from 3X22, where we see Chuck bringing Nate coffee in bed. Considering Nate can't make his own coffee (as we find out in a scene from 5X17, where we see Nate hopelessly trying to make the coffee machine work and Chuck intervening to help him), I like to think it's an habit they used to have when living together and that they kept after. As per usual, all the locations and references mentioned in the chapter exist. If you're curious, google them! Enjoy your reading and feel free to contact me if you have questions.

 _November 4th, 2024  
_ _Saturday_ _  
_

The next morning Chuck woke up far earlier than he had expected. In spite of his tiredness and the headache he was gripped by, his eyes snapped open a few minutes before nine, forcing him to heave a long sigh of annoyance. He could never rest properly without his wife.

The vague sense of alarm that naturally associated with her absence always kept him from enjoying some hours of deep sleep when they were apart; he could only manage to fall into a rather light one, from which he kept on waking during the night. Agitated, his arms and legs would persist in groping for her body, longing to cling to her; each time he didn't find her and was faced with the renewed consciousness that she wasn't in bed with him, his heart, revolting against that distance, would start beating faster.

That was why Blair never allowed him to leave for work the day after he came home from a trip. Instead, she used to let him sleep through the entire morning and didn't permit anyone to reach the floor where their master bedroom was, careful to make sure that no one disturbed him.

Knowing her, he knew she would have welcomed with a caring smile on Monday afternoon. She would have sighed in front of the paleness of his worn-out face, shook her head a little while saying that vacations were supposed to be restful and then declared that he needed twelve hours of interrupted sleep, a both thoughtful and amused gaze softening her concerned, maternal expression.

Smiling weakly at the thought, Chuck forced himself to sit up and guided his hands to the sides of his head. Rubbing his aching temples, he cursed the fact that there was no way he would have managed to fall back asleep. He was exhausted.

He had come back to the room around half past four in the morning and, by the time he had showered and changed into his night clothes, the sky had started to lighten beyond the large windows of his room, tinged with the pale pink stripes of dawn.

Inhaling a deep breath, Chuck ran a hand through his ruffled hair. In his twenties, he could have gone clubbing every night and never feel the blow of his excesses; all that he needed at the time to restore his strengths was a strong coffee and maybe one of his magical mixed drinks against hangovers.

Back then their days of perdition used to be a whirlwind of revelry that didn't include sleep. During the Lost Weekend of his first year of marriage, he and Nate had spent forty-eight hours straight confined inside a Las Vegas casino and, nevertheless, Chuck had still managed to work on some Bass Industries documents afterwards, on the jet taking them back to New York.

As the memory came back to his mind, a small sigh of placid resignation escaped his lips. Such an endeavor would have been out of his reach today, considering how shattered he felt after their nocturnal tour of bars. Still, in spite of the persistent ache in his head and the discomfort weakening him, he couldn't say he regretted the experience. Some glorious night outs were worth the tiredness of the morning, Chuck told himself, and the one he and Nate had just lived was definitely one of those.

After 878, they had briefly visited two more clubs before ending up at Frank's Bar, another former speakeasy that had kept its prohibition atmosphere. They had enjoyed more cigars and more drinks surrounded by tufted red-velvet upholstery, damask wallpaper and pictures of Al Capone.

Considering how down Nate had felt at the beginning of that night, Chuck was proud to say that, thanks to him, his best friend had definitely had a wonderful time. They had talked about important and unimportant things, joked, laughed and remembered some of the most amusing anecdotes from their youth.

Eventually, after a long night dedicated to their friendship, Chuck had been absolutely happy to give Nate some space when, back at the hotel's bar – the last stop of their tour –, they had met a group of women celebrating someone's bachelorette party. "I'll go upstairs, Nathaniel," he had whispered at Nate with a smirk, nodding at the noisy crowd. "It's time for you to go and conquer."

Curious to find out if Nate had actually been successful, he decided to collect his strengths and get up. He put on his slippers and paced to the chaise long settled in front of the windows, over which a black silk robe had been folded. Slipping it on, he took a minute to carefully adjust he belt around his waist before making his way to the bathroom, where he washed his face and fixed his hair.

When, ten minutes later, he came out of the bedroom, he looked presentable in spite of his night clothes and evident tiredness.

The curiosity that had led him to abandon the comfortable bed was soon satisfied. As he stepped into the informal living room, to which both his and Nate's room looked out, he noticed a woman coming out of his best friend's bedroom and silently closing the door behind her. Dressed in a short golden dress, she held her high heels in hand and, barefoot, she moved deliberately not to produce any noise.

Amused by that unmotivated furtiveness, Chuck decided he was going to take advantage of the moment to enjoy himself. He quietly leaned against the wall and, just when the stranger was about to leave the room to make her way to the foyer, he cleared his throat and said: "I seem to understand someone had a pretty busy night."

Taken by surprise, the woman started. She cautiously turned to see who had spoken and, when she did, her eyes opened wide. Chuck smirked. She was long haired, blonde, tall and not especially charming; it other words, she was Nate's type through and through.

"Chuck Bass?" a whisper escaped the stranger's parted lips.

Chuck's smirk became more evident as he moved from the wall and took a few steps towards the woman. Her astonished expression was definitely pleasant for his immense ego, for his unequivocal fame never missed to flatter him.

Still, determined to keep a certain distance from the girl in spite of his ironic comment, he decided to ignore the question. "Walks of shame are so dull, aren't they?" he wondered instead with a sigh.

He lazily waved at the suite's butler, who, having heard him, had come into the room to bring him a glass of water, which Chuck grabbed distractedly. "There's no need to sneak away like a thief," he kept on, as he distractedly took a short sip. "The butler will show you the door and you'll be able to leave as a civilized person. Have a pleasant day."

With that, Chuck walked past Nate's shocked conquest and made his way to the dining room. The table had already been arranged for breakfast; plates, glasses and cutlery had been properly set on a perfectly ironed ivory tablecloth. Chuck sat down at the end of the table and reached out to the selection of newspapers that rested beside him.

A minute later, the butler entered the room to take his orders. "What would you like to have for breakfast, sir?" he asked.

Chuck didn't shift his eyes from the article he was reading. "I'll have Eggs Royal, strong black coffee and a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice," he demanded and then, finally glancing up from the paper to dart the butler a stern look, he added: "In a reasonable time."

The butler bowed his head. "Yes, sir," he said, before rushing out of the room.

He came back soon after, followed by a waitress pushing a serving trolley on which Chuck's breakfast had been placed. When they finished serving him, Chuck dismissed both of them.

He enjoyed the first meal of his day while checking on his emails and completing his habitual reading of the morning papers. Once done, he checked on the time to make sure it wasn't too early in New York and then decided to call his wife.

As predicted, at seven am, she was already awake and pretty busy with her Saturday plans. The preparations for her birthday party were in full swing and, on the top of that, she had a breakfast appointment with her mother. Still, her full schedule didn't keep her from having a long phone call with her husband. Chuck told her everything about the hotel Jack had worked on and about the night he and Nate had spent out.

"Is Henry awake?" Chuck asked her after a while.

His hopeful voice made her laugh. "He is," she replied. "He's upstairs choosing his clothes. My mother wants to see him, so he'll come with me for breakfast. He said he needs a ' _Parisian attire_ ' for the occasion."

Chuck raised his eyebrows. "Parisian?" he echoed her. He didn't like the sound of it; actually, he was already pretty annoyed by how his mother in law expected the kid to be charmed by French culture. Tough he had to admit it was positive for Henry to be already bilingual, the basic thought still irritated him.

Catching the slightly bothered shade in his tone, Blair sighed. "He just wants to please his grandmother, Chuck."

"Well," he answered, rolling his eyes, "tell him to wear a silk neck chief. Nothing says French more than an informal tie; better if a patterned one."

"You say ' _informal_ ' as if it was an insult. You love neck chiefs," she reminded him. Her amused yet authoritarian voice made him smile; it had been only one day since he had last seen her, but he already missed her dearly. "How many of them do you have? One hundred?"

Leaning back on the chair, Chuck smirked. "Maybe more. But that's beside the point."

Blair paused – to take a deep breath and shake her head at him, Chuck supposed. "You're just grumpy, Bass," she stated after with utter self-confidence. "You're always grumpy when you don't sleep enough. Now," she kept on and he heard her knocking at a door, which he presumed to be their son's, "you can tell Henry about neck chiefs and ties yourself."

In a couple of seconds his cheerful son had taken his mother's phone and, for once, Chuck was happy not to have the occasion to defend himself from Blair's claims about his crankiness. He and Henry talked for around fifteen minutes about the kid's plans for the day and about what he had done the day before.

By the time Chuck hung up it was already half past ten. Concluding that it was time to wake Nate, he ordered the butler to bring pancakes, juice and an espresso for his best friend and demanded him to settle them on a tray. Following a long-lasting habit, he would have brought Nate breakfast in bed, for he knew that he had no intention of getting up just yet.

As he entered Nate's room with a lavishly prepared silver tray, Chuck couldn't help but chortling at the way Nate was sleeping; he had sprawled on the bed, his blonde head buried under a pillow and sheets lost in a bundle on the floor.

He walked deliberately through the dark room, rested the tray on the end-bench and then cautiously approached the sleeping man. He rested a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it lightly. "Nathaniel," he called his best friend in a whisper, "wake up."

Nate flinched. He slowly turned his head to side and raised the pillow just enough to glance at Chuck with barely opened yes. "Chuck," he groaned then, hiding his face back under the pillow. "It's early," he grumbled incoherently, "go 'way."

Laughing softly, Chuck arched his eyebrows. "Truth to be told, it's half past ten," he pointed out.

When he didn't receive any reply from his best friend, he decided he had to use tougher tactics; he stepped to the windows on the other side of the room and opened the heavy curtains. As soon as he allowed the sunlight to come in, he heard a pained moan coming from the bed.

Smirking, Chuck turned. Under his amused gaze, Nate tried to cover himself with the blankets, only to find out that he didn't have any. Defeated, he took a deep breath and finally lifted the pillow from his head. "I'm tired, man," he weakly mumbled. "Just _so_ tired."

"I can imagine," Chuck stated with a sigh. He paced back to the bed and sat down on the edge. "I had the chance to meet the source of your exhaustion before breakfast," he added, crossing his legs and shooting Nate an eloquent glance. "She was trying to sneak away unnoticed. A quite childish behavior, if you ask me."

Sluggishly, Nate forced himself to sat up; he eyed Chuck for a moment, before furrowing his eyebrows. "Are you talking about Ines?"

Chuck frowned. "I'm completely unaware of your one-night stand's name, Nathaniel," he said in an unconcerned voice tone. "Why would I care about a stranger's personal details? All I know is that I had the butler show her the door. And that, unsurprisingly, she looked awfully like _someone_."

A both perplexed and vaguely offended expression darkened Nate's sleepy face. "She didn't, okay?" he retorted impulsively. "She just didn't," he insisted, "not at all."

Chuck snorted. "If you say so," he said, a clear shade of irony in his voice. Nate rolled his eyes at him and Chuck snickered. "I brought you breakfast, though," he changed the topic, pointing at the tray settled on the bench. "I figured you needed to restore your energies before getting up. We have a long and pleasant day ahead of us, one that will require to be dynamic."

"You brought me breakfast?" A wide smile spread across Nate's face, wiping out any trace of offence. He looked genuinely surprised, although there was nothing shocking about that gesture; over the years, Chuck had woken him with a coffee and pancakes countless times. Yet, Nate's eyes always shimmered with wonder in front of that simple, affectionate attention.

"I did," Chuck confirmed, nodding his head.

Nate's smile became even larger. "Awesome!" he replied cheerfully.

He moved in bed clumsily and, reaching the bottom, he stretched his arms to grab the tray, which he gracelessly rested on the matrass. Full of enthusiasm, he grabbed a fork, skewered a pancake and took a generous bite.

It was only after had eaten half of it that he remembered the rest of what Chuck had told him. "So, you said dynamic day, uh?" he muttered, his mouth still full. Once he finally swallowed, he smiled at Chuck. "Where are we going, man?"

Chuck, who had been observing Nate's questionable manners with raised eyebrows and slightly pursed lips, found himself smiling back at him. "I arranged a visit at the _Buenos Aires Golf Club_ for us. A car will be here to take us there in thirty; we'll have lunch there and then enjoy an eighteen holes' course. We should be back here at the hotel in time to get ready for the night."

"For the night?" Nate questioned, as he reached for the glass of juice. He took a long sip. "Another tour of bars?"

Chuck smirked at his friend. "No, Nathaniel," he answered. "Tonight, we'll concede ourselves a more sophisticated experience."

Shrugging, Nate heaved a sigh. "I have a feeling you won't share more details about this ' _sophisticated experience_ ', right?"

"Correct," Chuck replied, the smirk on his lips sharpening with his evident satisfaction. "I had no idea that sex with strangers had the power to make you so perspicacious," he said, a barely contained laugh trembling through his words. "I'm impressed."

Nate stared at him for a couple of seconds, his eyes narrowed under a frown; then, all of sudden, he did something no one else could have done without risking imminent and dangerous consequences: he grabbed a pillow and, laughing as his expression softened, he threw it at his best friend.

Surprise crossed Chuck's face only for the split of a second. He regained his perfect poise faster than he had lost it. Silently, he guided his hand to the point of his head the pillow had gently hit and fixed his hair. After, he took a deep long breath that conveyed the effort he had made to maintain his patience intact in front of such an outrageous gesture. "Very mature, Nathaniel," he uttered with manifest indifference as he stood up. "I'll leave you to finish your breakfast and get ready," he stated, fixing his robe's belt around his waist. "I had Ivan pack a proper golf outfit for you; try to identify it, please."

"Proper?" Nate cried out. "Do you mean like one of yours?"

The quite alarmed question didn't get a reply; limiting himself to smirk, Chuck turned and walked to the door, deaf to Nate's protests and huffs.

* * *

The bold throwing of the pillow didn't have a negative influence on Chuck and Nate's Saturday. In fact, by the time they left for the _Buenos Aires Gold Club_ , Chuck's good mood had been restored and Nate's despicable act forgotten.

Both dressed in classic golf outfits, Chuck and Nate left the hotel around eleven and arrived at the club forty minutes later. As expected, they received a special treatment; they were personally welcomed by the club's manager and escorted to the club house's terrace, where they had lunch with argentine meat accompanied by fine red wine.

After they had eaten, they were led to the course's first hole. Chuck had contacted a golf operator and arranged their visit in every detail, including the staff accompanying them; while his bodyguard took care of their golf bags, they had also been provided with a golf cart driver and a club's staff member whose only task was to pour fresh Champagne into crystal flutes for them.

Luck had granted them a sunny yet crisp day. Under their panama hats, Chuck and Nate enjoyed the pleasant, mild sun and spent the afternoon playing and relaxing. Golf had the special quality of being a quiet and soothing sport and, basking in that stress-free, peaceful atmosphere, the two friends had the chance not only to have fun, but also to talk.

Between a shot and another, they had a long conversation about their plans for the future, about their family and work projects. Chatting, their words were spaced out by sips of sparkling wine and drags of joints from Chuck's cigarette case.

It was already late afternoon when they came back to the hotel. Before getting ready to go out, Chuck and Nate took some time to play pool and have a drink together.

Inflexible in spite of Nate's insistence, Chuck didn't give him any information about the night he had planned; he avoided the questions all the way through the game and it was only when he won that he decided to announce Nate that they were going to attend an especially exclusive tango show, which was going to be held at the _Faena Hotel_.

Since they were both still wearing golf outfits, Chuck considered wise to remind Nate that they couldn't go dressed in knitted argyle patterned sweaters and light brown pants; the event had a precise dress code, which required the guests to wear formal clothes.

Nate, who was already bothered by the fact he had been forced to wear a long sleeves shirt and a tie to play golf, didn't lose the occasion to complain. "Do I really have to put on a suit?" he protested.

The only answer he got from Chuck was a headshake and a pretty eloquent glare.

An hour later they had showered and changed into black tuxedos. A limousine came to pick them up at half past seven sharp and drove them to the Hotel Faena.

The place had a beautiful rococo style, which welcomed them with its elaborated decorations the moment they stepped into the long hallway. A valet dressed in a dark red uniform was waiting for them. After having greeted them properly and taken their coats, he escorted them along a baroque red rug to _El Cabaret_ , the bar where the show would have taken place.

 _El Cabaret_ respected the hotel's style. It was a rather small venue, awash in red velvet and gold trim, which had the atmosphere of a 1920's Buenos Aires tango club – sensual and dissolute.

Since the show was going to be preceded by a gourmet dinner, small tables, around which golden chair had been settled, had been arranged in front of the stage. A black tablecloth fell gracefully over each of them, giving the place a touch of decadency.

Their table was set in the middle of the front raw. Since all of the other guests had already arrived, several heads turned to watch them cross the room and stare at them as they took a seat.

Noticing the curiosity they had drawn, Nate waited impatiently for the waiter to light up the candle placed at the center of the table and then leaned in towards Chuck.

"Man," he whispered with a tad of alarm, "I have a feeling they think we're a gay couple."

Chuck had to keep himself from chortling at the statement. He raised his eyebrows at Nate, who was looking at him with a surprised expression. "Nathaniel," he said calmly, "I firmly believe one should try everything in life, and I'm proud to say I've had my share of experiences, but I exclude the possibility someone might think we're a couple. They're staring at us because we happen to be very well-known. And because, of course, we were the last to arrive."

Nate blinked. He thought about it for a moment, then, smiling, he said: "I guess you're right. Not that I would mind people thinking we're together. I mean," he frowned, trying to express what he was attempting to say without being misunderstood, "if I were gay I'd date you. If you were too, of course. I'm not saying..." his words trailed off with a long sigh of defeat. Giving up on his effort to be clear, he shook his blonde head. "Whatever, man. You understood."

"Don't worry," Chuck, who had understood perfectly, joked, "I won't tell Blair you have a crush on me. Although…" He paused, leaned over and, lowering his voice as a smirk curled his lips, he added: "I think she knows."

Laughing, Nate rolled his eyes. "Thinking about it, no, I wouldn't date you," he stated as he nodded his head no. "You're an ass."

"Cheers to that," Chuck took the glass of champagne they had brought them as a welcoming treat and raised it in a toast. "I'll take it as a compliment."

Dinner was what one could expect from an haute-cuisine restaurant; they savored a three courses meal and a selection of wines to accompany each of them, while keeping on with the thoughtful conversation they had enjoyed that afternoon.

When the show finally started, they were taking the last bites of quinces and pistachios cheesecake. The lights turned dim and the stage's red velvet curtain opened to reveal _Rojo Tango_ dancers, singers and musicians taking their places.

The artists put together a beautiful and mesmerizing performance, which had all of the elegant sensuality of tango – incredibly passionate and yet never vulgar. Watching the dancers, Chuck couldn't stop thinking about his wife and how she would have looked in one of those tango dresses that revealed just enough skin to be gracefully provocative.

He and Blair had never made it to the end of a tango; despite their pristine skills, every single time they had tried, he had ended up dragging her in an empty room, closing the door behind them, and giving in to the passion the music and the moves had fired up. They had never managed to contain the tension for more than one minute.

Chuck decided right there that they should have given tango another chance. He absolutely needed a shopping tour before leaving Argentina, he told himself as he took a sip of wine to distract himself from the thoughts crossing his mind; nothing would have stopped him from buying Blair the most wonderful tango dress, one that, probably, she wouldn't have kept on for long.


	4. Day 3 & Epilogue

**AN:** Hello, readers! Finally, here's the last update to this story! I hope you enjoyed this unusual story as much as I enjoyed writing it. I'm currently working on a multichapter CB fanfiction (I want to have all the chapters ready before starting to publish) and after finishing it, I'll hopefully be able to come back focusing on _Journey To Glory_. Coming to the chapters, as usual, you can check on the references if you're curious! People and places named here actually exist - I am a sucker for realistic settings! Enjoy the last day of Chuck and Nate's lost weekend and feel free to contact me if you have any sort of questions.

 _November 5th, 2024  
_ _Sunday_

The last day of Lost Weekend started in a rather unexpected way for Nate. While he had figured he and Chuck would have had breakfast together and then planned their day, he didn't find his best friend waiting for him when he walked into the dining room.

Confused, Nate paced back to the informal living room and then towards Chuck's room to see if he was still sleeping. It seemed unlikely, since it was already half past ten, but Nate didn't have any other ideas. So, he knocked gently at closed wooden door and, when he didn't get any replies from inside the room, he decided to give himself the permission to enter and slowly made his way into the bedroom.

His eyebrows furrowed with growing perplexity when he saw that the curtains were open, the bed was impeccably done and there were no signs hinting to Chuck's presence – no suits settled on the clothes valet, no papers left on the bedside tables and no light or sounds coming from the _en-suite_ bathroom.

Wondering where his best friend could have gone, Nate came back into the dining room. This time, he was careful to pay more attention to the room, seeking for clues that would have helped him understand.

The long table was set for only one person; a white china plate, crystal glasses and silver cutlery had been arranged at the head of it. Both intrigued and confused, Nate got closer.

As he approached the seat, his attention was drawn by a card settled on the cloth napkin resting on the plate; he picked it up and, observing it, he immediately recognized Chuck's elegant handwriting.

The note said: " _Good morning, Nathaniel. I went shopping; I figured there was no need to wake you for something you wouldn't have considered worth giving up to sleep in. I'll be back to pick you up for lunch. Enjoy your breakfast. C."_

Nate smiled before placing the card back on the table. He was truly grateful about the fact Chuck had spared him the torture of shopping and, exceptionally cheerful, he took a seat at the place set for him and poured himself a glass of water.

When the butler came in to serve him breakfast, Nate was in such a good mood that he invited the man to join him and spent the following hour hearing all about his two daughters. After breakfast, he came back to his bedroom; he showered, got dressed and decided to kill the time he had to wait for his best friend by watching a comedy on pay-per-view.

Around noon, he was distracted by noises coming from the suite's foyer. Figuring Chuck had arrived, he rapidly crossed the suite to the entrance and found out that he was right.

Chuck, preceded by three hotel's valet and both his bodyguards carrying packages from his shopping tour, had just come out of the elevator.

"Hello, Nathaniel," he said with a slight smile. "I apologize for leaving you alone this morning, but I needed to buy a few things."

"A few?" Nate replied with a laughter, as he tried to count all the bags the staff was bringing into Chuck's bedroom.

Chuck shrugged. "I happen to have a very exigent son and a wife that is definitely hard to please," he stated. Though his words were meant to be a justification, there was no hint of shame or regret in his tone; on the contrary, Nate noticed, he looked absolutely pleased. "Plus, I needed some new suits," Chuck kept on.

Then, all of sudden, his gaze, which had been following his staff, turned stern. "You," he called for the valet who was just now crossing the door to the living room. "Give me that red package. You're clearly incapable of carrying it carefully."

Nate, who didn't see anything wrong in the way the man was holding the mentioned package, frowned. "What's in there?" he asked curious, as the pretty frightened valet gingerly handed Chuck the bag.

Chuck took it and dismissed the man with a nod. Then, looking inside, he smirked. "It's something I got for Blair," he explained.

"Of course," Nate commented, as a smile stretched his lips. He got closer and peeked inside as well, but he only managed to spot some glossy black box before Chuck pulled the bag away from him.

"Curiosity killed the cat, Nathaniel," he stated.

He was still smirking satisfied, but there was something sharper in his eyes, a vague glimpse of jealousy that made Nate roll his eyes and laugh again. "Oh, come on, man," he protested, reaching out to the package. "It can't be anything too scandalous – or, at least, anything that could scandalize me. I've spent so much time with you guys that I think I've already heard and seen everything."

Chuck thought about it for a second, as his smirk turned even more oblique. "Fine," he conceded eventually, "but no touching." He darted Nate a firm and quite authoritarian look. "It's delicate."

With a deliberate gesture, he extracted a box from the package and then opened it cautiously.

Inside there was something Nate had never thought Blair could have worn. As Chuck picked it up with the most content sly smile, he realized it was a sheer, completely see through gown studded with dark red and black crystals and a deep slit at side.

His eyes widened and, surprised, he blinked a few times. "Wow," he commented. "That's…"

"It's a tango dress, Nathaniel," Chuck described. "An especially audacious one."

"Wow," Nate repeated, shaking his head. "Are you sure Blair will actually wear that?" he asked after. Blair was all about grace and class; imagining her with such a revealing and eye-catching dress was quite hard. "I mean, it's really sexy."

Chuck shot him a both eloquent look and vaguely offended look. "Not in public, of course," he replied. His eyes lowered and rested on the gown. "But in private..." he skimmed his fingers over the translucent fabric and his lips curved in a new smirk, "that's another story."

After a moment, he glanced up and winked at a genuinely amused Nate, before walking past him and pacing to the bedroom, as he put the sparkling dress back into the box.

Realizing he was probably going to call his wife, Nate didn't follow him; sometimes, he had learnt a long time ago, it was better to give the Basses some privacy. They had no shame, but he certainly did.

* * *

Chuck and Nate had lunch at _Chila_. The award-winning restaurant wasn't usually open for lunch, but the chef made an exception for them; they were escorted to a private area, which had privileged view to Puerto Madero, and enjoyed the tasting menu.

After, Chuck, who was in the mood for a quiet activity, had their driver take them to the _Latin American Art Museum of Buenos Aires_. There they visited the modern architecture structure and got the chance to see both the permanent collection and a temporary exhibition of a selection of paintings by Carlos Alonso. After the tour, Chuck insisted to stop by at the building's library to buy a few art books for his wife and then offered Nate a drink at the _Café des Arts._

They left the museum a few minutes before five. In the limousine bringing them back to the hotel, Chuck and Nate planned their night; neither of them was feeling up to go out and so they decided to stay in and spend the last hours of their lost weekend playing poker. Therefore, Chuck, never the one to settle for anything less than perfect, called the hotel manager and demanded him to have a poker table brought to the suite.

They were still en route to the Facundo when Chuck's phone rang. He pulled it out of the inner pocket of his suit with a frown; Blair had told him that morning that she would have called him before her dinner time, but it was only half past two in New York. Perplexed and somewhat worried, he glanced at the screen and, when he saw his uncle's name flashing before his eyes, he pursed his lips in frustration.

It wasn't a good sign: Jack never called him while he was on vacation (out of self-preservation, he used to say, because a stressed-out Chuck was, according to him, "a nightmare to deal with"), unless there was a major problem at work. Because of his notorious pride, there were a very few situations his uncle wouldn't have gladly preferred handling on his own, even just to brag about his competence.

If he had been forced to give up on the chance to show off and to deal with an issue on a non-working day, the situation had to be rather serious.

Sighing, Chuck looked up at Nate. "Would you excuse me, Nathaniel?" he asked his best friend, who was starting at him from the side seats. "I need to take this call. It's Jack."

"Oh," Nate's expression grew somewhat annoyed at that information. However, he forced a smile and shrugged. "Yeah, no problem, man."

Knowing it bothered him, Chuck smiled back at him in a kind, silent display of gratitude before bringing the mobile phone to his ear.

As soon as he did, his eyes lost the gentleness they had gazed at Nate with and turned harshly impassive. "Whatever is the problem," he started off in a flat, dangerously calm and slow tone, "it better be fixed by tomorrow, Jack."

"And good afternoon to you, dear nephew," Jack replied with a snicker. "How are you? I'm great, by the way. Thanks for asking."

Taking a deep breath or irritation, Chuck closed his eyes for a second and pressed his lips in a thin line. "Get to the point, uncle," he demanded firmly.

Another sicker coming from the other end of the phone forced Chuck to open his eyes again only to roll them at that bothersome hilarity. "It's offensive to realize you have no trust in your beloved uncle Jack," the older Bass commented, his words trailing off with a dramatic sigh. "Everything is perfectly fine; not a single thing needs to be fixed. I just called to inform you about my current location."

Relieved yet suspicious, Chuck arched his eyebrows in a skeptical expression. "Why would I care?" he asked, a hint of reluctance in his voice.

His instinct told him he had to expect an answer he wouldn't have liked; Jack could be anywhere, he could have even had reached them only to torture Nate. In the short pause that followed his question, Chuck glanced up at his best friend and, observing him looking out of the car window with his completely unaware expression, he thought he could see his uncle's lips curving in his most diabolic smirk.

"Because I happen to be in Buenos Aires as well," he revealed, confirming his nephew's most sinister presentiments. "At our hotel, to be more precise. Actually, truth to be told, I'm sitting in the living room of your suite, sipping the ridiculously expensive vintage scotch you requested the bar to be equipped with. You're too spoiled, nephew."

Chuck darted Nate one last worried look before shaking his head; the damage was done, he thought, as, tensely, he guided his hand to his jaw and rubbed it tensely. "If you think I'm impressed you're fooling yourself," he commented, his voice now tinged with an intentional shade of boredom. "Though terribly rude, your habit of showing up uninvited doesn't surprise me anymore."

"Aren't you curious to know why I'm here?" Jack asked.

Chuck rolled his eyes once again. "What exactly are you doing here, uncle?" he indulged him.

Jack sighed. "This weekend Buenos Aires hosted the polo Argentinean Open and I came to know that Nacho Figueras was going to come watch the matches," he explained in an extremely satisfied voice tone. "Since my youngest nephew happens to be a promising champion of this discipline, I thought I'd be the best uncle and convince one of the greatest to give him private lessons."

Chuck smiled. His uncle had played his cards very well. Bringing Henry up was always the best way to soften him; everything that made his son happy always had the very same effect on him.

Unable to avoid to feel pleased, he inhaled a deep breath or resignation. "I'm sure Henry will be delighted," he replied. "But this still doesn't explain why you're in my suite. Thought you picked an absolutely credible excuse, I don't buy it. I'm sure you could have convinced this person to agree to come to New York without traveling all the way to Argentina."

Jack, who had caught the amusement in his nephew's voice, came to the conclusion he could have let him know about his true purpose without significant consequences. "I came to rescue from your tedious _boyfriend_ and to add a bit of spice to this supposedly Lost Weekend. I have a feeling you didn't do anything truly transgressive."

He sounded satisfied, Chuck noticed. Inevitably, a smirk rose to his lips; though he was concerned about Nate's reaction, he couldn't help but enjoying the dynamics of that game between him and his uncle. It was a play in which everything was implicit and all of the truths were concealed, unsaid or turned around; so, if Chuck pretended to be bothered by the intrusion, Jack pretended to enjoy his annoyance, when, actually, they both were looking forward to spend some time in each other's company.

Chuck glanced at Nate and shot him a guilty look. He realized that his best friend had been staring at him and understood from his desolated expression that he had heard enough of the phone call to come to the conclusion that Jack would have joined them for their last night of Buenos Aires. It was obvious that he hated the idea of having him there.

Realizing that he needed to reassure Nate about the fact that his uncle's presence wouldn't have ruined what was left of their vacation, Chuck decided to close the conversation. "I'll see you soon, Jack," he said before hanging up.

"Your crazy uncle is here, uh?" Nate asked as soon as Chuck put away his phone.

"So it seems," Chuck uttered laconically, as, eyeing his best friend, he tried to understand from his face exactly how bothered he was.

The huff that escaped Nate's lips at his reply gave him the answer to that question: he was as annoyed as a person as gentle and as patient as him could be.

And the reason behind that blatant irritation was even clearer than its display; Nate was unquestionably jealous. Over the years, he had never been able to get over the feeling of peeve that caught him whenever he found himself in the condition of having to share Chuck's friendship with someone else.

If the fact that Nate was so protective of their space pleased Chuck enormously, at the same time he knew that he couldn't exclude his uncle from his life. They certainly didn't have a common relationship – it had its peculiar rules and a deep end of inevitable competitiveness – but it was nevertheless an important one.

He and Jack had a very similar way of thinking and many common interests; they worked together, could discuss business for hours, had private poker nights and played squash twice a week. Though Chuck loved Nate as a brother, he knew there were things his best friend didn't get and, most of all, didn't enjoy.

His masked contentment at the thought of his uncle's presence, however, didn't make him feel any less worried. As if to satisfy his need to remark the privileged place he occupied in Chuck's life, Nate used to turn competitive around Jack, in a way that often revealed to be quite dangerous.

If there was something that his devilish uncle was good at, that was finding a person's softest spot and taking advantage of that weakness, with the mere purpose of having fun.

To Jack, it was incredibly amusing observing as Nate tried to prove he was a better company to Chuck, and he never missed the chance to foment this behavior by turning everything into a contest which he was sure to win.

These situations never finished well for Nate; the last time Chuck had invited Jack to join them for a Lost Weekend, two years ago, his best friend had ended up risking to be arrested for drugs possession.

"Look, Nathaniel," Chuck tried to explain, "he came to do something nice for Henry. He convinced a famous former polo player to come to New York to give your nephew private lessons. It was kind of him. I can't just tell him to leave."

Nate thought about it for a second and then sighed. "I suppose," he said in an unconvinced voice. "I just don't like the way he intrudes, you know? It was supposed to be our weekend."

"And it was," Chuck affirmed with confidence. "Jack's being here doesn't change a thing, we'll have a wonderful last night."

A few seconds long silence followed that statement; then, guiding his eyes back to Chuck, Nate decided to break it. "Yeah, we shouldn't let your uncle ruin it," he said, and the corners of his lips tilted up in an unsure smile.

Chuck decided to reply with an elusive nod; he knew that if he had told Nate that he was actually intrigued at the idea of having Jack there for the end of Lost Weekend, the situation would have surely escalated in a rather unsafe way and he had no desire of dealing with the possibly terrible outcome.

* * *

Stepping out of the private elevator which had led them to their suite, Chuck and Nate found Jack waiting for them in the small entrance. He was standing in front of the sliding doors, a drink in his hand and an obviously pleased, sharp smirk giving him a both satisfied and wicked expression.

"The lost men are finally back," Jack commented, as both Chuck and Nate walked past him. He leaned against the now closed elevator's doors and took a sip of the scotch he was savoring. "I was getting bored of being _Mr. Lonely_ in this enormous suite."

Adjusting his tie, Chuck took a step forward and stretched his arm to shake his uncle's hand. "Lonely?" he asked. His eyebrows raised, tinging the question with disbelief. "I thought the time you had to wait for us was more than enough for the legendary Jack Bass to find the company of a woman, seal the deal and then kick her out," he replied sardonic, a sly smile curving his lips. "But I suppose even the best grow old eventually."

Shaking back Chuck's hand, Jack tightened the grip around his fingers and darted his nephew a warning look. "You'll soon learn that age is nothing but a number. It's irrelevant."

Chuck chortled. "But your top-secret monogamy isn't, right?" he pointed out, shooting his uncle an eloquent glance. His smirk turned even more evident as a vaguely offended frown appeared on the older man's brow. "I'm not sure if out of fear or out of love, you wouldn't cheat on dear Georgie."

Since both the options Chuck had presented him with were equally true and, to his judgement, absolutely humiliating, Jack didn't reply. Rolling his eyes, he let go of his nephew's hand and moved from the elevator.

"Hey, kid," he greeted Nate, as he moved a couple of steps in his direction. Once he reached him, he rested a hand on his shoulder. "Just out of curiosity," he uttered, nodding his head towards Chuck, "has he been this unpleasant all weekend long?"

Narrowing his eyes, Nate glared at him. "Not to me," he stated coldly. "But, after all, he wouldn't have had a reason to be. Unlike someone, I'm not a vicious, exasperating jerk. I usually don't show up uninvited."

Unaffected by the unusually cutting words, Jack sneered. "Oh, poor Nate," he said with a long sigh, shaking his head. "He doesn't want big, bad Uncle Jack to steal his boyfriend's attention from him. Tragic."

Before Nate could reply, Chuck inhaled a sharp breath of impatience. "Leave him alone, Jack," he warned his uncle with a firm stare. He then turned his attention at Nate and gave him a half-smile. "Why don't we all move to the living room and have a drink together?" he proposed, determined to put an end to the quarrel. "We'll then order dinner and enjoy this night as civilized people."

"I've already started sipping this juice," Jack said after a few seconds of silence, raising the glass he was holding with a shrug. "But I'd love another."

"Yeah," Nate sighed. He looked daggers at Jack before bringing his eyes back on Chuck. "I'd like one too, man."

Chuck nodded. "Good," he stated as a smirk took form on his lips. Satisfied with the result he had obtained, he led both men to the other room.

He only had to maintain that precarious peace till tomorrow, he wondered, as he reached for the decanter; luckily, he was an excellent strategist.

* * *

Even excellent strategists, though, make mistakes sometimes – and Chuck, in spite of his reluctance to admit it, wasn't an exception. His fault, he would have come to the conclusion later, after a deep analysis of what had happened, had been mainly all a crime of pride.

Competitive by nature and driven by a constant, irrepressible desire to affirm his supremacy and dominance, Chuck could have never turned down the opportunity to prove his uncle that he was indisputably superior. So, when, after dinner, Jack had proposed him a poker game for two on the specific table the staff had brought to the suite, he hadn't been able to reject the offer.

Actually, he hadn't thought about it twice. Blinded by the arrogance that was innate in his personality and that had made him so successful, Chuck had accepted the challenge immediately and instantly made it clear, with his first bet, that the game wasn't going to be a regular one.

After all, it never was when it came to the Bass men. Chuck and Jack played cards the same  
way they lived their lives; shamelessly, ostentatiously and with an ever-present, unconcealed megalomania. Their games were far from being simple leisure activities; they were indispensable calibrators in their relationships, means they used to give vent to the constant power war between them – a competitiveness that was more about the respect gained from victory than victory itself.

Both absolutely convinced of their superiority, of their sharper intelligence and more brilliant slyness, the Basses faced the game with the certainness they would have won; and, since they weren't simply billionaires, but they were billionaires who had made most of their fortune in real estate, they didn't bet money (it would have been too simple and not enough concrete): they bet proprieties.

It was a way of playing that required absolute concentration. So, when Chuck had put at stake a club he had recently opened in Amsterdam, the atmosphere had become immediately tense. Silence had shrouded the room and both him and Jack had become so absorbed by the game that they had simply forgotten there was another person in the room – one who didn't stand out for his ability to focus or for his patience.

Clueless about the mechanisms behind the game and the importance it had to the players, Nate had ended up getting bored of all that silence and even anxious.

While Chuck and Jack genuinely enjoyed the pressure of such a stressing situation, to Nate even just living it as a mere viewer was insufferable. Feeling uncomfortable and excluded, he had soon begun to huff and drum his finger on the table to express his annoyance, only to realize that, unfortunately, his efforts weren't enough to draw the Basses' attention.

Therefore, he had come to the conclusion that he had to change his strategy; if he couldn't make them notice he wasn't having fun, he had thought, then his only option was to disturb their tedious occupation. So he had started pacing around the table, stopping now and then to peek at the cards – which bothered both the players immensely – and ask questions neither Chuck or Jack could answer to, for obvious reasons of secrecy.

Patience wasn't a recurrent or even an appreciated trait in the Bass family (if anything, the Basses considered it an excuse for lack of ambition and laziness), but the love Chuck had for Nate allowed him to be tolerant towards his most childish behaviors.

The same couldn't have been said about Jack. In fact, the older Bass had no interest in his nephew's best friend; he judged him irritating and unsophisticated and he had absolutely no intention to tolerate his interference.

Unless he could take advantage of it, of course. Jack had a true talent when it came to recognizing the opportunities that presented themselves in front of him; so, when he had sensed that he was going to lose, he had done exactly what one could expect from someone as deceitful as him: he had taken the chance to quit with a perfectly credible excuse – and also to entertain himself.

"I can't play like this," he had declared dramatically, putting down his cards. "It's impossible to focus with your boyfriend interrupting my line of reasoning every twenty seconds, nephew."

Chuck had gazed at him skeptically for a moment and then he had rolled his eyes. He had seen his uncle finding a way to concentrate even in the most absurd situations and he knew for sure that his compliant was a mere expedient not to face the humiliation of losing, but he also understood that he was technically right.

And since Chuck was an extremely proud person, he would have never allowed Jack to dismiss his defeat by blaming it on lack of focus, for the fact that this justification would have devalued his own victory. To Chuck, victory lost all of its worth if it wasn't absolute. So he had put down his cards as well. "Attributing failure to circumstances is the attitude of those who can't achieve success," he had remarked anyways with a sigh.

Behind him, Nate had giggled, keeping Jack from responding to his nephew's subtle accusation. "Yeah, you're right," the blond man had commented cheerfully, patting on Chuck's shoulder, "he was totally gonna lose, man."

It was then that Chuck should have done something to prevent the situation from degenerating; the signs of an imminent disaster were all there to be seen. Distracted by his own frustration at the thought he had been forced to abandon a game he was winning, though, he hadn't given the right importance to the way his uncle had remained strangely calm in front of Nate's observation.

In fact, Jack had limited himself to smirk at the blonde man and, gathering the cards, he had said: "Since you seemed to be so interested in the game, why don't you join the table, kid?"

Chuck's awareness about the gravity of the situation had arrived with that proposition – with a few seconds of crucial delate. Pronouncing it, Jack had darted him a satisfied, perfidious glance, which had made him understand clearly that Nate had now become his uncle's amusement for the night.

Suddenly full of worry, Chuck had pursed his lips. "Nathaniel doesn't enjoy poker the way we play it, uncle," he had replied in a tone that made his words sound like a warning, an attempt to fix his previous lack of readiness. "He likes a more relaxed atmosphere, don't you Nathaniel?"

Much to Chuck's dismay, Nate hadn't answered him. Instead, he had decided to shoot Jack a bizarre defiant look – a clumsy effort to look somewhat fearsome. "I'm fine however Jack wants to play," he had declared as he pushed the chair back with a provocative demeanor. "As long as he stops calling me kid."

Jack had snickered. "As you prefer," he had smirked, " _Nate_."

Caught by an impulsive sense of alarm, Chuck had rubbed his jaw tensely; a nervous sigh had come out of his lips. "Are you sure, Nathaniel?" he had tried to dissuade his best friend from starting to play with Jack. "You might get bored."

"He won't," Jack had cut him off, sneering at his subtle glare. "Since Nate isn't very fond of serious poker games, we'll play Black Jack instead," he had declared, the smirk on his face turning even more amused and definitely less reassuring. "Are you familiar with the rules, Nate?"

Rubbing his hands with the enthusiasm of a boy, Nate had smiled. "Of course I am."

"Excellent," Jack had nodded. "But before we start, I must warn you," he had kept on. "We won't bet money." Taking pleasure in Nate's evident surprise, Jack had paused; he had lowered his eyes and with a precise, deliberate gesture, he had straightened his tie. "Dollars become dull when you have as many as I do," he had explained distractedly. Then, with a sigh, he had glanced up again, the malevolent smile still evident on his thin lips. "No," he had stated, "this will be a drinking game. Our bets will be bourbon shots: you lose, you drink."

The look of disapproval on Chuck's face had darkened with his growing concern. "This is ridiculous, uncle," he had uttered the words in a taut and intimidating voice. "Drinking game are for idiotic teenagers," he had scowled at the older man, "We're adults. I'm sure we can find less humiliating ways to entertain ourselves."

"Man, I like drinking games," Nate had interrupted him with a shrug and a larger, enthusiastic smile, completely unaware that he was declining the last chance to be rescued from an obvious trap. "They're fun and I'm good at them."

"I'm sure you are," Jack had agreed, a self-satisfied expression making him look even more diabolic. "Don't mind Chuck, Nate," he had said after, raising his eyebrows at his nephew in a derisive way. Sardonic, he had winked at him. "He's too serious to enjoy himself."

With that, started shuffling the cards, leaving Chuck to witness the development of the game without being able to do anything to protect Nate from the inevitable consequences.

An hour had passed since that moment.

Out of the several hands that had been played, Nate had only managed to win two – and Chuck suspected that Jack had lost them on purpose, simply because he wanted to taste some liquor as well.

Truth to be told, at the beginning of the game Nate's moves hadn't even been that thoughtless; he had stood and hit in a way that, even if not especially bright, was still sensed.

Being an average player, though, wasn't enough to defeat Jack, who happened to be almost impossible to beat. He was an expert dealer who knew how to provoke his rival to hit even in the riskiest conditions, he bluffed effortlessly and he was quick at making mental probability calculations.

Inevitably, Nate had ended up notching up a series of lost hands and, discouraged by the repeated defeats and made more and more imprudent by the alcohol he had been forced to gulp down, he had started to become stubborn and irrational. His decisions had turned progressively more illogical and his bets out of proportion ("Seven shots!" he had announced at some point, hitting the table with his hand).

He was now completely drunk and exhausted; he was pale, his hands were quivering and his eyes were bloodshot. He clearly wouldn't have been able to handle another shot of bourbon without being sick. Yet, obstinately, he remained at the table.

Staring at him, Chuck leaned in and placed a hand on his best friend's shoulder. "Nate," he said quietly. "It's enough."

Nate shook his head violently. The abrupt movement made the last bit of color fade from his cheeks and he swallowed nervously before being able to answer. "No," he stated feebly, "I can beat him."

Exasperated, Chuck closed his eyes for a moment, trying to collect the patience. Slowly, he reached out to grab Nate's cards from his weak grip; he pulled gently and, deaf to his best friend's mumbled protests, he slid them into the inner pocket of his suit. "You can't," he responded. "I'm way better than you at this game and he still manages to beat me from time to time; not to mention the fact that he could drink two times what you drank and still be perfectly lucid. It's out of your reach, Nathaniel."

"Chuck, you're ruing all the fun," Jack complained with a snidely laugh. "Let your boyfriend take his own decisions. He's perfectly capable of doing it."

Chuck turned, shooting his uncle a withering look. "Does he look like he can to you?" he hissed, his eyes full of cold rage. He took a deep breath to contain his temper. "Why don't you pay a visit at the hotel's bar, Jack?" he asked after. His tone was so low and so threatening that the proposition sounded everything but one; it was an order, a firm and unquestionable one.

Jack rolled his eyes at his nephew's strict and hostile stare. "Fine," he said, pushing the chair back to stand up. "I'll leave the two of you alone for a while," he conceded, realizing that it was better to disappear for some time. "I'll be downstairs."

Chuck nodded and let his uncle exit the room without a word. His attention was completely focused on Nate, who, in the meantime, had rested his head on the table and was keeping his eyes squeezed shut.

Chuck shook him delicately. "Nate, you need to come with me," he said in a low voice.

"My head keeps spinning man," Nate moaned. "If I move, I'll be sick."

Mentally cursing his uncle, Chuck rubbed his hand on his forehead in a tense gesture. "I'm afraid that's the best thing that can happen to you right now," he whispered to himself.

Judging by how miserable and shaky Nate looked, it was an inevitable epilogue. Actually, dragging him to a bathroom and waiting for his body to reject all the liquor he had ingested was probably the best way to help him.

"Come on, Nate," Chuck insisted, resting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing it lightly. "I need to get you to the bathroom."

It was only after a whole minute that Nate finally allowed Chuck to help him get up. Sighing, Chuck started slowly leading him to his room, fully aware of the fact it was going to be a quite long night.

* * *

Half an hour Nate had expelled the contents of his stomach thrice – and, tragically, one of them had been on Chuck's precious Italian leather shoes.

After a long sequence of protests, Chuck had finally managed to take him to bed. Having found himself in the condition of nursing Nate through a hangover several times before, he had faced the situation with expertise. He had settled the pillows in a position that would have helped his best friend to suffer less from the head spinning, he had covered him with a heavy blanket and eventually he had called the reception and demanded the concierge to have several bottles of water and a bucket brought to the suite.

He was now sitting on an armchair, staring at Nate with a deeply worried expression.

He couldn't relax; his alert eyes kept shifting from a spot of the room to another, checking repeatedly that everything he needed to take care of his reckless friend was in its place.

The bottles of water and the aspirin Nate would have needed in the morning were on the bedside table, extra blankets were folded at the bottom of the bed and the bucket had been placed close to its side, immediately available in case of need. Everything was under control – as much as the circumstances allowed.

Everything except for Nate, of course, who kept moaning and rolling in bed.

"Stay still, Nathaniel," Chuck repeated for the countless time, closing his eyes in a moment of tiredness. "You'll get nauseous again if you keep moving."

"But I can't," Nate whined. "My stomach hurts. And my head. And I feel so sick, Chuck."

Chuck inhaled a deep sigh. "I know, Nathaniel," he responded. "You should try to sleep."

The only answer he got form his best friend was another groan. Chuck ran a hand through his hair nervously; knowing that Nate was in such a miserable condition and not being able to do anything bothered him immensely, especially because he felt responsible about what had happened.

But if his heart was full of sense of guilt for how he hadn't been able to stop his uncle from causing this damage, his mind was working restlessly on revenge. Jack would have paid for this; it was absolutely indispensable.

"Man," Nate called him in a wobbly voice, shaking him from his vindictive thoughts.

Chuck's lips curled in a small, affectionate smile. "Tell me," he said, his tone tinged with concern in spite of the apparent calmness. "What is it?"

"I'm sorry, man," he muttered.

"I have plenty of handcrafted shoes, Nathaniel," Chuck answered. Even though a wrinkle appeared on his forehead at the memory of his irreparably ruined _Bottega Veneta_ , but he still repressed his slight irritation and spoke serenely. "Don't worry about that."

Even if unstable on his elbows, Nate slowly sat up. "No, not about the shoes," he murmured. "I mean, of course I'm sorry about that too. But what I meant was I'm sorry about ruining our weekend."

Chuck frowned. "What are you talking about?" He stood up and took the couple of steps that divided the armchair from the bed. Looking down at Nate's sincerely remorseful expression and at the small pout puckering his lips, he shook his head. "You didn't ruin anything, Nathaniel."

Nate sighed. "I did," he replied, falling back on the pillows as his eyes went shut again. "I got carried away by that stupid drinking game. I just wanted to prove something, you know?"

Chuck thought about it; he knew, of course he did. Though Nate hadn't clearly explained the reasons that had led him to take the bold decision to challenge Jack, the intention behind that foolish behavior was easy to understand.

He had simply tried to demonstrate that no one could take the spot he occupied in Chuck's life; the privileged position he had kept for most of his life couldn't be called into question.

"It wasn't your best decision," Chuck admitted as he sat down on the edge of the bed. Looking at Nate, he felt a rush of affection in his chest. In spite of the current situation, it was heartwarming to know that his best friend cared about him so much to do something so stupid just to show him his loyalty. "But don't be too hard on yourself," he told him, his lips stretching in a sympathetic smile as he patted his hand on Nate's forearm. "You're definitely not the first to fall in my uncle's traps. He can be truly wicked."

Nate smiled back. "Thanks, man," he responded faintly. Caught by a moment of shyness, he glanced down. "I'll try to sleep now, I guess," he said after. "I feel horrible."

"Do that," Chuck replied with a nod. He stood up and went back to his armchair, letting Nate know with the simple gesture of sitting down and unbuttoning the jacket of his suit that he was going to wait for him to fall asleep before leaving room.

* * *

It was after forty minutes that Chuck finally left Nate's bedroom. He quietly closed the door behind him and made his way back to the informal living room.

There, sitting at the poker table, Jack was waiting for him. He glanced up when he heard his steps and smirked. "How's your boyfriend?" he asked sarcastically, putting down the card – a joker – he had been making slide through his fingers with mastery.

Chuck stopped a few paces from the table. He scowled at his uncle. "Sick, thanks to you."

A look of fake surprise suddenly appeared on Jack's face. "Thanks to me?" he echoed his nephew. "I didn't do anything, Chuck," he defended himself, falsely confused and taken aback from the accusation. He raised his arms in a sign of professed innocence. "He wanted to play."

Chuck didn't reply right away. Impassible, he approached the table and rested the palms of his hands on the green fabric upholstering the tabletop. "You manipulated him," he stated, his voice flat and grave. "Which is something I should have expected from you. I honestly hope you had fun and that playing this game was worth it," he kept on, as he took the seat in front of Jack. Once comfortable on the chair, he smirked. "Because now you're going to pay for your entertainment."

Jack eyed his nephew with narrowed eyes, trying to decide if he was serious. When he realized that he was indeed, he scoffed. "Are you trying to intimidate me?"

Chuck snickered. "No," he responded, shaking his head. "It would be a waste of energy; you're too full of himself. But you _should_ feel intimidated," he stated. With a quick yet theatrical gesture, he extracted the cards he had taken from Nate earlier and tossed them on the table. "You're not playing with Nathaniel anymore. You'll have to beat an equal now."

"You've thrown down the gauntlet to defend your husband's honor," the older Bass commented. A sly smile curled his lips, as he locked eyes with Chuck; he stared at him with a both intrigued and determined expression. "Adorable."

The confident smirk on Chuck's lips didn't stir. "I did," he answered. "One poker game, Jack. If you win, you won't have to work for the next month. You'll be completely free."

A frown crumpled Jack's brow. "I thought I was supposed to take those business trips you planned," he pointed out, gazing at Chuck with suspect. "Who will you send?"

"No one," Chuck stated promptly. "I will do it."

"No," Jack shook his head, chortling. "You promised the little devil you wouldn't. Where's the trick, nephew?"

Chuck smiled enigmatically. "There isn't one. If I win, I'll take the yacht you bought last summer."

"You own two already," Jack contested. "And you hate sailing. Why would you want my ship?"

"I don't," Chuck replied with a shrug. "I couldn't be less interested in it. But I seem to recall it was a present to your psychopathic girlfriend, one to convince her to take you back. I'd love to see Georgie's reaction if she lost such a beautiful gift because you couldn't win a poker game."

Jack's eyes flashed with surprise for the split of a second. Satisfied, Chuck saw him struggling to decide wheatear she should have accepted the challenge or not. The risk of having to face Georgina's fury was a dangerous one to accept, but the prospective of winning was too tempting to be let down.

"But I can win," Jack uttered after a few seconds.

At the reply, Chuck smirked pleased. "Then let's see what happens," he declared.

He knew by experience that those who had just one won a battle against a weak opponent tended to consider themselves invincible; and Jack, with his infinite pride and satisfaction for how he had managed to play with Nate, was an overly arrogant rival.

No situation was better in order to get revenge: competitors who thought they couldn't lose had always been Chuck's favorite to beat.

* * *

 _November 6th, 2024  
_ _Monday_

The next day, on the jet taking them back to New York, Chuck was staring out of the round windows. It was a cloudy day, but his mood couldn't have been brighter. Lost weekend had been as good as he had expected it to be: it had been exciting, relaxing and also reassuring.

Like every year, it had brought with it the warmth of a confirmed friendship and the awareness that the bond that had united him and his best friend for the past thirty years was an undying, unshakable one.

That being said, Chuck was also happy to go home; he missed his wife and his son dearly and he knew he needed a full day of rest. Tired, he leaned his head against the leather couch's backrest and allowed himself to close his eyes with a content sigh.

Suddenly, a sweet thought crossed his mind: Blair and Henry were waiting for him at the airport. His wife had sent him a picture a few minutes earlier and texted him they couldn't wait to see him. The corners of his lips tilted up in a peaceful smile as he realized once more that he would have soon been able to hold them.

"Mr. Bass?"

A voice forced him to open his eyes. When he did, he saw a hostess smiling down at him and, bothered, he glared at her. "Yes?"

She glanced down. "I'm sorry to disturb you, sir," she apologized. "It's just the pilot wanted me to inform you we'll land in thirty."

Chuck rolled his eyes. "I'm aware," he replied, still vexed by the fact his heartening thoughts had been brusquely interrupted. Realizing that he had to get ready, though, he demanded the woman to bring him a scotch and his overnight bag, so that he would have been able to make himself presentable before landing – his hair definitely needed to be fixed.

The hostess smiled kindly at him. "Of course, sir," she said. "I'll be right back to you."

Once she left, Chuck shoot a glance at the door that led to the bedrooms' cabin. Nate was probably still sleeping, as he had done all the way through the flight. He had disappeared into the guestroom after they had taken off and left Chuck in the company of his ill-tempered uncle.

Though Chuck had sincerely enjoyed Jack's terrible mood as the outcome of his crushing victory the night before, now he wanted to spend a few minutes with Nate before arriving.

With the intention to warn him that they were almost in New York, he stood up and started making his way to the bedrooms' area. Surprisingly, when he was about to open the door, Nate got the jump on him and did the same from the other side.

"Hey man," he smiled brightly at Chuck. He still looked pale and wasted, but his eyes were full of cheer and his grin joyful. "We're about to land, aren't we?"

Smiling back, Chuck nodded. "We are indeed," he confirmed, resting a hand on his best friend's shoulder. "How are you feeling?" he asked, as he led him back to the lounge.

Sitting down on the couch, Nate shrugged. "I've been better, but I guess I'm fine," he replied, as Chuck took a seat next to him. "Though I don't think I'll drink one of those anytime soon," he added, pointing at the glass of scotch the hostess had set on the low table in front of the sofa.

Chuck chortled. "Wise decision," he commented, reaching out to the glass. He took a short sip and then, resting the drink back on the table, he eyed his best friend. "Hangover aside, did you have a good time, Nathaniel?" he asked.

Nate wasn't the most perceptive person, but he knew Chuck well enough to catch the small hint of insecurity in his best friend's question. So he grinned. "I had the best time, Chuck," he declared. "Actually, I think it's been one of our best Lost Weekends."

A shy smile rose to Chuck's lips. "I agree," he answered, as, shyly, he lowered his eyes.

"I guess we can't say the same about your uncle, though," Nate said, laughing cheerfully. "I heard him argue on the phone with Georgina. He's in the master bedroom calling her ' _psycho_ '. "

"Well," Chuck heaved a long sigh, "I'm sure she wasn't happy to know he lost her yacht at cards."

Nate frowned, confused. "Did he?" he asked with a giggle. "Seriously?"

"Absolutely," Chuck assured him. "I had to teach him a lesson after what he did to you. As they say," he took another sip of scotch and raised his glass towards Nate, " _what goes around comes around_."

It was the perfect end to a great weekend, Nate thought, as, laughing at Jack's unfortunate defeat, he wondered that he definitely had the best friend he could have ever hoped for.

A friend who, in spite of his demanding life, always found time for him and who made sure, every year, to dedicate an entire weekend to their relationship; a friend who never missed to protect him and take care of him. He might have lost love and the chance to build a life with the woman he thought was going to be his wife forever, but, as Chuck used to say, he did have a family.


End file.
